


Paved with Good Intentions

by astrotxt



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Castiel as FBI agent, Crazy!Sam, Dean as a TA, M/M, More substance than smut sorry, Redemption, Teaming together, saving people, super slow build up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-19
Updated: 2014-04-25
Packaged: 2017-12-27 01:07:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 22,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/972536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrotxt/pseuds/astrotxt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Dean Winchester's life as a TA at Kansas University is turned upside down by an FBI agent that needs his help, he has no idea the destruction that awaits him at the end of the road.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

PROLOGUE  
Kansas in October was stagnant. From where Dean was planted, anyway. He rocked on a chair on his front porch, surrounded by ghosts. Whenever they moaned too loudly, he fumbled for the neck of the Jack Daniels next to his right foot. Salvation lay at the bottom of that bottle, and he was damned if he was going to spend the last week of his month-long sabbatical in anything other than a drunken stupor. It’s funny that it took three years for his colleagues to realise he was imploding from the chaos his life had been thrown into. Whispers when he’d lose his train of thought in front of a class, a side effect of enjoying whiskey at 10.30 in the morning. Finally Professor Singer had taken him aside to offer him a sabbatical to “get his damn life together”. Dean had been only too happy to oblige in walking away from KU, but his life would never be together again. It was torn apart beyond repair the day a man with nothing but blue eyes and a tan trench coat stole into his life, and fell away almost as quickly, leaving him with nothing but broken pieces on the side-walk. The memories of three years ago were always on constant repeat, there was nothing he could do to stop them short of putting a bullet in his brain. The only thing he seemed to be able to control was how much they tortured him.  


	2. Going Through the Motions

It was the personal opinion of Dean Winchester that his life was wholly unremarkable. Every day he would wake up with a sense of half-contentment. He was alive. Sammy was holding on a little better every day. Since he’d been the one who found Jessica sliced open and burned alive in their bed, he hadn’t been the same puppy-eyed genius that Dean had had a hand in bringing up. He’d left Stanford just after he’d gotten his astoundingly good LSAT score and hadn’t looked back, moving in with Dean, battling his demons in a safe place. At least he’d finally started sleeping again. He was scared Sam’s hair and fingernails were gonna fall out or something. He’d seen it in a movie once. And he was eating a little more too. Dean had always complained about Sam’s leafy zen craptastic diet until he stopped eating because there “were maggots in his food”. There weren’t maggots anymore, and the Devil had stopped screaming in his ear, and that marked a huge progress in Dean’s book. So continued his reasons for getting out of bed in the morning. His fridge still had enough bacon for his breakfast this morning. He pulled off his AC/DC shirt that constituted his night-wear to wrestle on a white shirt and tweed slacks that he’d deemed appropriate wear for being a teaching assistant at Kansas University. A-ha, reason number three. He was doing something he loved, revolving around a subject he was passionate about. There you go, Dean-o, always something to smile about. Reason number four… Was he teaching a class today? He scanned quickly to the calendar next to him and sure enough, it was a Tuesday, the day Alastair took off for the most mysterious “personal reasons”, most likely drinking down at the Roadhouse until he passed out. So teaching today! Unsupervised! Sure he had to give the prof his lesson plan to make sure there wasn’t anything too scarring, but then again world mythology and folklore was always scarring to some extent, people were crazy back then. 

“People are crazier than the monsters under the bed that they make up to scare ‘em,” he muttered to himself, looking up at his reflection in the thin mirror next to his bedroom door. His straw-like hair stuck up in all sorts of directions, but a scrape of gel through it and he was ready to go. At least he knew what to do with a pair of clippers, unlike Sammy, or, as he had been dubbed recently, Samantha. Crazy or not, that kid needed a damn haircut, stat. Nearly falling over as he fought his socks on, he stumbled forward and onwards down the stairs for some breakfast. 

“Sammy?” Silence. Ok, he always slept in. Maybe some breakfast’ll coax him out of his hovel, Dean thought.

As the bacon sizzled in the pan, Dean was barely looking, thinking more about the sheer monotony of his life. He had never questioned looking after Sammy before, and he never would, but he always wondered, when had he become so reliant on Sam? 

God, I really need to get laid, Dean thought shaking off any remnants of self-doubt before he shoved some eggs and bacon onto a couple of plates and banging the frying pan with the spatula.

“Rise and shine, Sammy!” he shouted up the stairs, pausing his cacophony to switch on the radio. “Heat of the Moment” blared through the tinny speakers. “Come on, Sam! Asia! Woo! Love this station!” 

“DEAN! TURN THAT OFF!” Sam’s groggy but muffled voice couldn’t mask the undeniable bitch face he was making under the pillow he had probably wanted to smother himself with because Dean was monstrous in the morning. 

“It’s a beautiful day, little brother! Perfect for job hunting! Unless, of course, you want to clean the toilet later on today when you’ve decided to wake up…”

A loud groan followed by galumphing around preceded an annoyed “alright alright I’m up.”

Dean grinned up at his gigantic little brother still adjusting to the not-so-mottled atmosphere outside of his room. “Bitch.”

Sam begrudgingly smirked down at him. “Jerk.”

“Eat your breakfast before it gets cold.”

“Yes, Mom.”

“Shut up.”

“Whatever, don’t you have a class to teach today?”

“It’s called a lesson plan, Samantha, I’m sorted.”

“So you remembered the clocks went forward last night?”

All at once, the colour drained out of Dean’s face. He gulped. “So that would make the time…”

“Hmm, about 9.10am.”

Dean ran out without touching his breakfast, only having enough time to grab the keys to his Impala. Sam grinned as he stared down at his feast. No wonder he was so big.

***

“Sorry everyone, did you guys get the memo about losing an hour’s sleep?” Dean addressed his pseudo-students breathily, receiving a low murmur of chuckling throughout the auditorium. “So just me missing out, then. Teaches me for skimping out on those new-fangled alarm clocks that change the time for you. Right, everyone turn to page 457, French mythology. Now who can tell me either one of two things, what a Tamasque is, and with which other beasts does it draw parallels with?”

Dean enjoyed working with this class, because it was such a specific class and the weak-willed and lazy were warded off Alastair’s hard-as-nails approach that the only students left were hard-working and generally bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, etc. He wouldn’t go so far as to say they were a joy to teach because this wasn’t Dead Poet’s Society, and he wasn’t here to change their lives, make them stand on those flimsy excuses for tables and shout “Captain, my Captain!”, he was there to show them the world of the supernatural. At 8.30 and 3.30 on a Tuesday. And occasionally mark papers. Sometimes very badly written papers. He stifled a snort when he recalled some serious chucklehead’s excuse for sentence construction. This class was easy, he’d done so well in it himself that Alastair hadn’t even bothered to read anyone else’s application for TA. Alastair was creepy as all hell, but he was a damn good teacher. But, despite his passion for lore, despite his enthused class, despite his flair and charisma, the day still sometimes felt like it wouldn’t end. 

***

Dean pulled up to the Roadhouse at about six that evening for a full hour of marking and he knew he’d need a couple of whiskies to get through it. Ellen ran the joint, and her daughter Jo was smart as a whip, being home-schooled after getting kicked out for starting fights. To all intents and purposes she was perfect for him, but Dean liked his license to teach and Jo was still fairly young, and Dean Winchester was no cradle-robber. 

“Alright, Ellen, how you doing tonight?”

“Better than you, them those Wendigo papers you set last week?”

Dean chuckled, then sighed. “Unfortunately, yes.”

“I’ll make it a double then, shall I?”

“I’ve already seen three where they’ve spelt it Wendyga, so hell yes, thank you ma’am, and keep ‘em coming.”

“Wendigos getting on your butt?”

“Hey Jo, how’s my favourite freak with a knife collection.”

“Preferring if you left out the ‘freak’ part thank you very much” she sulked.

“Hey, it’s a compliment, what, you wanna be like the morons in my lectures who can’t even spell Wendigo?”

“You make a valid point, Losechester.” Jo emphasised as she elbowed Dean in the ribs.

“Oh, wow, real mature, freak!” Dean mocked as he made a funny face.

“Knock it off you two, you’re scaring off my respectable clientele.” Ellen said in regards to her virtually empty bar. 

“Sorry Ellen, I didn’t realise Lou, Ash and Rufus were respectable clientele.”

“Shut it, College Boy.” Rufus mumbled from his usual booth.

“That’s College Man, now, Rufus!” Dean called back.

“That sounds like a really sucky superhero.” Jo laughed. 

“Hey, now everyone needs to stop distracting me, I have molasses to get through here.” Dean said indicating the substantial pile in front of him. They chattered and drank until about ten when Dean, buzz worn off by the broken dreams of America’s education system as evidenced by 60% those papers, clambered into the Impala and drove home. 

***

Dean made his way inside, checking the back door was locked, checking the fridge for supplies for the next day. Sam hadn’t been out, but they would be ok for a couple more days. Dean trudged up the carpeted staircase and checked his brother’s room, for a corpse or a man passed out drunk with a tear-stained cheeks. Thankfully, in the most depressing way imaginable, it was the latter, the moon highlighting the trails down his baby brother’s face. Dean always marvelled at how such an enormous man could look so much like a child. He wondered if he would always look like that, even if he lived to 80. He might not. 

Dean had a quick shower, scalding the day away, scalding away the tears that always threatened to escape when he thought about how lost his little brother was, scalding away the nagging voice that said to just end this worthless life of his. He wrestled back into the AC/DC shirt, as if wearing sleep-wear and getting into bed would be enough to simulate tiredness. To feel tired, you needed to first have been awake. Dean Winchester walked through his life, not ever really awake, not really living. He wondered how long he could keep up living his wholly unremarkable life.


	3. Nameless

A week later, Dean pulled up to his usual spot at KU to see a man sitting on a bench outside Peterman Hall. It was not an odd occurrence by any stretch of the imagination, except it was 7am and Dean had only gotten there so early because he’d wanted to check up on something in the library before his lecture, and students were not normally this eager. Scratch that, they weren’t usually awake at this hour let alone dressed and hanging outside for a lecture that was probably not due to open for another hour or so. Dean felt bad for the guy sitting out here by himself, so he walked over to offer to let him in, when the man turned to him. Dean stopped in his tracks. This guy was weird. Like, a little bit scary weird. For all intents and purposes, he looked like a bedraggled tax accountant, askew blue tie not quite straight, messily tucked in shirt, with a tan trench coat that probably hid a multitude of sins. 

God this guy looks a mess, Dean thought to himself, but that wasn’t what was so unnerving. The fact that this guy, just a touch shorter than Dean, was staring pointedly at him was too intense for words. Yeah. That wasn’t creepy at all. 

“You ok, man?”

“Yes, I’m- I’m looking for Professor Robert Singer?”   
Dean chuckled at the thought of Bobby being here at any other time than exactly when he needed to be and the stranger tilted his head slightly to the left. “What exactly is amusing about the whereabouts of Professor Singer?”

Is this guy serious? Dean thought, his eyebrows raising as he smirked. “Erm, sorry, no, he’s er, he’s not here yet.”

“I’d have thought heads of departments are punctual.”

“Punctual ain’t for another hour or so.” Dean retorted, slightly on defence-mode for Bobby’s sake. He knew administration resented him because, despite his cantakerous exterior, Bobby was the absolute expert of his field and he never played by their rules. 

“Then what are you doing here?”   “I had something I wanted to look up.”

That, for some reason, warranted a small smile that reached the shorter man’s eyes more than his mouth. Dean narrowed his gaze. The smile waned a little and the stranger held out his hand.

“Jimmy Collins.”

Dean looked from the open palm to his own calloused and weathered paws. He put his forward in a strong grip and shook once, firmly. 

“Dean Smith.” He didn’t know this guy, and something didn't seem quite right. His instincts were usually spot-on. This guy didn’t need to know his real name.

They stood, eyes locked, hands gripped, for a little while. Then Dean withdrew and looked down, for a moment confused by how strong the small man was, considering how much his trench coat seemed to dwarf him.  
“So, Jimmy, you want to at least come inside? There’re chairs and what-not outside Bobb- Professor Singer’s office. You’re welcome to wait there.”

Jimmy pondered his options a little before replying. “Where are you going?”

“Library. It’s pretty much the only thing that separates his office from Professor Heyerdahl’s lecture hall, so it’s pretty convenient. I can take you to Singer’s before, if you’d like.”

“And who is Professor Heyerdahl?”

“He’s my superior, basically. I’m his TA.”

Jimmy’s eyes narrowed considerably then. “You teach here? In this department?”

Dean felt nervous under Jimmy’s stare. “Er, yes. Every Tuesday. Teaching people, learning things, the college business. You know?” He had attempted to lighten the mood, but nothing was alleviating the tension that had suddenly grown taut around them. 

“Thank you, but I think I’ll make my own way.” Jimmy finally dismissed. 

“Jim, we’re going the same way.”

Jimmy looked irritated. Dean could actually see the inner monologue rolling through his mind, see Jimmy reasoning with himself. Dean couldn’t really be bothered to wait, he really wanted to check the specifics on that Yōkai variation he hadn’t heard of. Maybe Charlie had just made it up to seem smarter than she was. Either way, he needed to check. He was tired of being so insecure about his intelligence. So caught up in himself, he failed to hear Jimmy jogging to catch up with him. As a result when he saw him storming alongside him into Peterman Hall, he jumped a little.

“Dammit, Jim, what are you doing? Scared the crap outta me!”

“Where is Professor Singer’s office?”

“First left after the library.”

“Where is the library?”

“Here.” Dean indicated to the hefty wooden doors as he flipped out the key to unlock it. “Look, Jim, could you at least tell me why you’re suddenly pissed at me?” He looked up to see he was talking to no one. Alone. As is the way, Dean thought. He pushed through into his sanctuary and buried himself in the proverbial and mythical consciousness of man in times gone past, attempting to erase all memory of those terrifyingly blue eyes that were more akin to abysses than windows to the soul.

***

Bobby heard a strong three knocks on his door, which announced the arrival of none other than Dean Winchester. Must’ve just finished his afternoon session, Bobby thought.

“What is it, Winchester?”

“Hey, Bobby, you er, you see a guy come in here?”

“Gonna have to help me out here, Dean, I get traffic daily through here.”   “Like, a little shorter than me, dark hair, trench coat-” Dean attempted to gesture before Bobby interrupted   “You mean Misha Krushnic?”

That took Dean aback a little. Misha Krushnic? What the hell happened to Jimmy Collins, scruffy tax collector?

“That’s not who he was this morning, Bobby.”   “Who’d he say he was this morning?”

“Jimmy Collins.”

“That’s decidedly un-Russian.” Bobby furrowed his brow, processing the information.

“He was Russian? Well I suppose the name…”

“Said he was interested in switching majors after he read my thesis on Russian folklore and its part in the Russian revolution. I thought something was suspicious, that’s probably the most tiresome one I’ve done. He talked my ear off about it, though, and- BALLS.”   
“What, Bobby?”

“He asked if he could see your schedule.”

What the hell was going on here? Did he have a stalker on his hands? “Bobby, what did you tell him?”   
“Don’t be an idjit, I didn’t tell him nothin’ personal about you. The stuff about Sammy ain’t even on file, just- Calm down, will ya?”

“Bobby, we don’t know who this guy even is! Why is he all of a sudden interested in me? Who the hell would be interested in me?”

“I don’t know boy, but you’d better find him, and quick. Get some answers.”

“Thanks Bobby.” Dean flew out of the office and kept an eagle eye out for the sight of dark hair and a trench coat. 

***

As soon as he rushed out of Peterman Hall, he noticed Charlie talking to someone; although he couldn't quite see the other party, her brash red hair could probably be seen from space. 

Okay, Charlie’s memory is practically photographic, she’ll help me out. As Dean nears, however, he realises that Charlie is speaking to none other than Jimmy, Misha, whatever his name is. Dean gets hit with a wave of fear. Ok, the crazy train stops here, you son of a bitch, get away from Charlie, Dean thought angrily to himself. He marched over and interrupted Charlie mid-laugh.

“Oh hey, Dean-o, this is Dmitri Kripke, he’s an exchange-”

“Enough with the presto-change-o with your name, bud, who the hell are you?”   
Charlie, the absolute summation of tact, knew her cue and waved shyly before running off and jumping into her yellow Beetle. Dean and his mysterious assailant were left alone in front of Dean’s car. 

“Hello, Dean. I could ask you the same thing.”

“No, no more of this, ok? Who, or what the hell are you? And, and not another bullcrap name, I want the truth now.”

Dean searched this stranger’s eyes for any indication of truth. He looked right back, narrowing his gaze and tilting his head. Once he seemed satisfied, for whatever reason, he sighed and looked down, rummaging through the lining of his coat. 

“Special Agent Castiel Novak, FBI. I’m here on an investigation concerning the deaths of Tamara Jones, Andrew Scarborough and Katie Hamelin.”

Dean recalled the names, but he barely read the papers anymore. There was never any time. 

“Well, what about ‘em?” Dean asked casually, attempting to bluff that he wasn’t completely taken aback by this stunning revelation. 

“We require someone of your… specific expertise.”

“You mean someone who knows about ghosts, ghouls and all things bump in the night? Why?”

“The deaths, they’re linked. But please, I don’t exactly want to discuss the details of my investigation out in the open. Is there somewhere more private we can talk?”

Dean led the agent (the friggin’ FBI agent) back up the steps into Peterman Hall to learn more about his place in the faceless organisation’s plans.


	4. Testing the Waters

“You wanna run by me how I really fit into this investigation?” Dean was looking through the case files one by one over and over, struggling to find the pattern that Castiel (Castiel, what kind of name is that, Romanian or something?) had clearly found led to him in some way.

“As I said before, Mr Winchester, we require someone of your specific expertise, pertaining to your wide knowledge of lore that tie in specifically to these cases.” Dean touched the files he had been pouring over with Special Agent Novak for the last half hour or so. He decided to press on and let Castiel know what he could.

“Ok, so we’ve got Victim numero uno, Tamara Jones, 35, skewered with a blade-tipped umbrella left inside her, with a veritable cocktail of hallucinogens so far as I can see pumping through her bloodstream.”

“Your verdict on the matter?”

“Well, see, your biggest clue is the inscription in her arm.” Dean pointed at the photograph. He didn’t know how people could take pictures of such a grisly scene, let alone refer to it constantly. I guess desensitisation comes with the territory, Dean thought sadly.

Castiel narrowed his eyes at that. “Is it… some kind of symbol?”

Dean smiled, revelling a little that he got to show off for once. “It’s Japanese. In fact it tells you what kind of ‘monster’ you’re dealing with.”

Castiel urged him on by shifting in his seat to crane his neck over the picture, closer to Dean than Dean would prefer. “Which is?”

“Erm, Cas…”

He looked up at Dean, tilting his head slightly. “Dean?”

Dean cleared his throat awkwardly. “Personal space, agent.”

Castiel seemed to look down at himself then leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms, shuffling his coat, rumpling the tie and looking up as if to say, _better now_?

“The, uh, the inscription says Yōkai,” Dean cleared his throat again as he continued, feeling vaguely patronised, “which is a kind of shapeshifter, and considering the choice of weapon, it was specifically a Karakasa, the kind of shapeshifter that transforms into household objects but most commonly an umbrella.”

Dean looked up to see either irritation at his being inevitably wrong or boredom on the agent’s face. He saw neither. He was greeted with a small smile of approval, and when Dean returned it Cas raised his eyebrows and looked down. His voice rumbled as he said,

“Please. Do go on.”

“The second victim, Andrew Scarborough, 23,” Dean paused at the young age of this victim, the same age as his brother, but pushed on nonetheless; “poisoned with arsenic and left to die, he was kept purposefully to decay in order to create the effect of having had sucked the life out of him.” He looked up and flashed the famous Winchester grin. “Go ‘head, ask me how I know?”

“Would it have something to do with the mark made immediately post-mortem? The hand-print?”

“Exactly, the blue hand-print!" Dean for once felt like he had a truly responsive student. His class was hardly a real source for him, and what Heyerdahl and Bobby knew was leagues ahead of his expertise, so to find an interested audience was, well, exciting. "And yeah, it had to be literally straight after he died, to make it look like it was the cause of death. Djinn attack their victims and send them into a dream-like trance while they feed on them because it tastes better when you’re happy. They make your dreams come true in your head while they’re happily sucking the life outta you. There are a couple of bastard off-shoots though, and one of them feeds on the fear and leaves a blue hand-print. They get their fill once you’ve died and eat your bloated corpse.”

Cas looks slightly paler after the explanation. Dean tries to lighten the mood slightly as he realises that this had actually _happened_  in real life.

“Raise your hand of this gives you the heebs and/or jeebs.”

“Carry on, Dean.”

“Latest victim, Katie Hamelin, 13, diabetic who was overdosed on insulin. Bruises on her wrists show that she was restrained…” Dean sharply took an intake of breath. “A pipe was shoved down her throat post-mortem and she was- _fed_ partially to rats.”

Cas put a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “She was found in close proximity to the sewer line on Ridgemont and Callaghan. She wasn’t fed, Dean.”

“This guy friggin’ _whittled_ a damn _flute_ out of branch to shove down this poor girl’s throat, I mean, SPLINTERS in her windpipe, you think he didn’t plan the goddamn rats chewing on her-” Dean immediately got up before he completely lost his composure. She was just a kid. Her whole damn life before her and some psycho had taken her away, for- what? A game? Dean’s shoulders moved of their own volition, wracking with a threat of a tear-stained break-down, before he suddenly realised why these cases linked together. More than that, how they linked to him.

“Japanese folklore, Dreams and the Surreal monster, Germanic folklore- Cas.” He turned to see the agent standing from his seat, clocking that the TA had finally understood his part in all the mess. “These are classes I taught. Am I-” Everything dawned on Dean far too quickly that his face must have registered every conclusion he had missed up until now, a map of his horrific epiphany. “I was a suspect. That’s why you didn’t tell me your real name, and why you stormed off when I told you mine, but not my real one. And why you asked Bobby for my schedule to- to check my alibi! And when I confronted you, you came up with this crock of crap that you needed my help because, hey, you couldn’t blow your cover! What the hell, Cas, you made me think that I-” He stopped himself before he bared his soul to someone who clearly had no real trust in him. Someone who had actually made him feel like his good-for-nothin’ life was finally worth something beyond looking after a deranged brother and breathing. For an hour or so, there was a buzzing potential about his life that Cas had whipped out from under him just as quickly as he had laid it down. And it hurt, that he was suspected of these atrocities, things that would give him nightmares for weeks. He turned away because those damn waterworks were threatening to break out of him. No. He refused to cry in front of this man.

“Dean, you were never officially a suspect. If you were, if there had been any shred of proof that you were the murderer, there would have been a formal investigation and you’d have been taken into custody. I, however, did suspect you. And for that I am sorry, because once I spoke to Professor Singer and observed you just now, I knew you didn’t fit the profile.”

“Oh yeah?” Dean spat, still not facing the agent. He felt petulant. He didn’t give two hoots. “And what exactly made you so sure?”

“Your face looking over the files. Many psychopaths are able to mimic human empathy, but there were subtleties to your reactions. I asked you to analyse the information on your own specifically to gauge them. Typically, psychopaths are engrossed in violence and chaos, preferring to look into it, but you? You physically flinched.” His voice had become softer, and Dean wanted to turn and accept what he realised was an elaborate apology. Perhaps the kindness was killing him a little, too. No one had ever really bothered to put Dean at ease, mostly because he put on the face that he was alright all the time. His face had slipped because this man, this agent, had not trusted him. “Then, it was like you were infused with this sense of duty. You delved in, but were not engrossed. It was actually quite admirable. Thus, I stopped suspecting you. Especially with Miss Hamelin. That clearly struck a nerve somewhere.”

“Yeah, well, contrary to your previous beliefs, I prefer that little girls weren’t overdosed on insulin and fed to rats, to be set up for some kind of damn game of cat and mouse with a bunch of junkless know-it-alls!” Dean had finally broken and turned to face Castiel, angrily retorting to something so heartless. “Of course it struck a goddamn nerve! She was _thirteen_! So!”

Cas narrowed his eyes at Dean, squinting them slightly. “So?”

Dean came down from his rage a little to look into those big blues. His voice was gravelly with what he was about to say. “So… What the hell can I do to help catch this sonuvabitch and make him pay for what he’s done?”

Cas smiled with his eyes rather than his mouth. “Help me narrow down a list of students that could have potentially committed this crime.”

Dean reared back at that. “My students?” 

“Yes. Your class is the main theme holding these murders together. You are the pattern, Dean.”

“Well, damn. After news like that, I could use a drink.”

Cas looked down. He turned to the left looking into nothing, as if he didn’t want to see Dean’s reaction to what he was about to say. “Would it be intrusive if I joined you?”

Dean smiled and Cas turned his head back to discover Dean clapping a hand on his back and laughing.

“Sure thing, Cas. We could both do with one. And hey, I’ll buy you one for every one of your aliases today.”

Cas seemed to smile at that, wide and unflinching.  


	5. A Change of Scenery

As they came up to the Roadhouse, Castiel realised that they had only exchanged a few words during their drive. Normally, Castiel was the epitome of social awkwardness. Not from any tragic lack of experience with socialising, but simply because he had always been more focused on numbers instead of trying to be relatable growing up. But something in the way Dean had reacted… it held a certain weight with Castiel. Although at heart he was a theoretical physicist, he had joined the FBI because he loved people. He saw them as these meticulously difficult puzzles, less predictable than quarks, and helping people- it was a way of being relevant to his fellow man. His past was interesting in parts, but sadly they were stained with blood, and those tainted moments motivated him every single day. He had always been resentful of the misconception that introverts were inherently uninterested in the rest of humanity and thus isolated themselves, developing neurotic tendencies as a result of not being "involved". He was simply uninterested in conforming. He was, after all, more than a tool. He was an architect, seeing the blueprints of people, unlocking them with his observations. A result of rigorous self-reflection, naturally. Yet, despite that, despite the usual conclusion many felt towards Castiel’s lack of understanding when it came to social norm, Dean accepted him. He didn’t force small-talk onto him (how he loathed small talk) and seemed genuinely interested in not only assisting him however he could with the case, but in _him_. 

 

But Castiel worried. The last person he was close to was dead. He hadn’t had a particularly good track record when it came to companionship. 

 

The gravel crunched as the 1967 Chevrolet Impala slowed to a stop, and a comfortable silence settled for a moment before Dean chirped gruffly, “Come on, then, let me introduce you to the gang.”

 

“Dean, I do not think revealing my status would be particularly professional.”

 

“Relax, I’ll tell ‘em you’re a visiting lecturer or something. You an expert in anything?”

 

“I wouldn't say expert, but I'm fairly well versed when it comes to theoretical physics and a few branches of psychology.”

 

Dean laughed until his crow’s feet creased, “A brain-box, huh? It’ll be a nice change for them, then.”

 

Castiel was a little confused at that. “I recall you saying _you_ were a regular patron here. Clearly it’s not a change for them to have intelligent clientele.” He tilted his head at Dean, narrowing his eyes and furrowing his brow in concentration. 

 

Dean stopped and stared a little back at him. They had stayed quite late clearing up the papers, and moonlight had reached them once they set off. Castiel noted the powerful green of Dean’s eyes, drawing him in a little. His chest tightened somewhat when a lop-sided grin reached those eyes. 

 

“Man, you’re something else, Cas. Come on, let’s get some liquor in ya.” Castiel shoved his hands into the pockets of his slacks, his trench coat curtained open to his sides. He would certainly enjoy some alcohol right now.

 

***

 

 “What’ll it be, the usual Dean?” A woman with softly curled brown hair, a mother, a widow, busy cleaning glasses, barely even looked at Dean before she glanced over to Castiel

 

“Make that a double, Ellen.” Dean said as he got ready to settle on barstool.

 

“Ohh, who’s your friend?” A young blonde girl popped up from behind the counter. She was clearly too young to be working in a bar, but Castiel would ignore that. It was Dean’s bar. He didn’t want to cause unnecessary trouble.

 

“Joanna Beth Harvelle, get the _hell_ over the right side of this bar or so help me I will send you home to do your calculus _there._ ”

 

“Alright, Mom, c’mon, Dean’s friend is hardly gonna tip off the Feds.” She sidled up to Dean. “And if he does, Dean-o here will find himself lacking a pair of nipples.”

 

“Hey! My perky nipples are my best attribute, you little freak!”

 

The girl reacted in mock offence, and Dean started to tickle her mercilessly, Castiel still standing by. Ellen looked wearily on the two acting rather childishly. “C’mon, hon, take a seat while these two tire themselves out.” She started on filling a jar with what was on tap as she asked, “So, how do you know our Dean?”

 

“I’m a visiting lecturer. Theoretical physics, but I dabble and I’m currently working on a thesis in psychology and behavioural sciences.” He sometimes really hated how easy it was to lie to people, replying in comfortable vernacular rather than the clipped and well-formed sentences he only used with people who understood that that's how he worked. The fact that he had been confronted by Dean, forced into the truth, it had been difficult but granted him so much more freedom than he had expected. He was no longer close to anyone at work, and his personal life lacked any true connections. 

 

“Well, what on earth are you doing in our neck of the woods? And with a TA in the Mythology and Lore department?” She said it with a smile, but it did not fool Castiel. It was an interrogation disguised as small talk. Castiel smiled at how Dean inspired such protectiveness in those around him. It would take more than a steely mother hen to sway him, though. 

 

“Dean offered me lunch. I looked like a regular lost soul, wandering around because, scatterbrain as I am, I remembered my lesson plan but not my daily tupperware of soup and pitta.”

 

“Shame to miss out on a soup on a brisk one like today. What flavour?”

 

“My own recipe, pumpkin coriander and a little extra secret ingredient that really makes it pop. Still, pop-tarts and half a chicken-mayo sub did the trick. Filled a hole, as it were.”

 

Jo mumbled as she and Dean finished shuffling about behind him, “yeah I bet it did.” He smiled as he could hear the wicked grin.

 

“Jo, you keep your lascivious thoughts to yourself!” Dean laughed, slightly out of breath. “Ellen, I thought you were curbing it on all that new-fangled internet nonsense. She’ll be addicted to the Instabook and Fumble or whatever constitutes pornography these days.” Dean joked. Castiel chuckled into his beer, looking up at Ellen suppressing a laugh. Jo clearly didn’t enjoy the sentiment as she thwacked Dean’s shoulder before exiting in a huff.

 

Dean picked up his jar, looking into the golden froth and smiling. “Works every time.”

 

“You’re not the one who has to deal with the aftermath, Mister.” Ellen phrased it like a scold, but it was laced with a softness that was hard to stifle. 

 

“I’ll make it up to you someday Ellen.”

 

“Yeah, when you pull your head out of your head and take her off my hands.”

 

Castiel blanched at that, spluttering his drink, feeling the burn in his nose. 

 

“Aw, no, Ellen! Not this again! One: I’m no cradle-robber. Look, Cas has spit his drink because anyone with eyes knows she’s too young to be with me. Two: Jo is like my sister, for crying out loud. And, the all important Numero Tres: I don’t know if you noticed, but I’m more of a man’s man, if you know what I mean.”

 

“Dean, shush, not in here.” Ellen chided, seriously this time. 

 

“Oh come on, even Rufus and that lot aren’t here.”

 

A booming growl erupts from a booth behind them. “Yes I am, Stephen Fry.”

 

“Yeah, well you knew anyway.”

 

“Can smell you guys a mile off. Like rainbow cake frosting and acceptance. Makes me wanna grab a bucket and hurl.”

 

“Wow, Rufus, could you be more non-PC?” Dean asks, mock hurt and sarcasm permeating every word. 

 

“Yes, but we have female company, so I’m sparing her the gory details.”

 

At this point, the burn in Castiel’s cheeks had made its way up to the top of his ears. The blood was pumping so loudly in his ears, he barely heard Dean’s question.

 

“Cas? You in there?”

 

“What? Yes. Sorry. What did you say?”

 

“I asked if you cared whether I was gay or not, trying to take a poll in here!” He grinned ear to ear, completely serious.

 

“I am utterly indifferent to sexual orientation.” Cas said without even thinking. He was. Utterly. 

 

He didn’t think his contribution was particularly amusing, but Dean smiled that lop-sided grin and slapped Castiel’s back as he let out a hearty laugh. Castiel let the vibration ring through his skeleton and raised his glass, the both of them downing their drinks before Castiel raised two fingers conspiratorially at Ellen. 

 

***

 

“And that, my friend, was the perilous, yet surprisingly happy, tale of Rhonda Hurley. So, you got any horror stories for the campfire, Cas?”

 

Castiel had enjoyed the evening, getting far more drunk than Dean, who could clearly hold his liquor with the best of them, and listening to him divulge his “sexcapades” as Dean had dubbed them. But to contribute? Castiel hardly had the repertoire to match Dean’s.  But then again, he doubted as to whether anyone really did. 

“There was one, really. Meg Masters, back in college.”

 

“Oooh we’ve got alliteration and education all in one, let’s hear it.” As Dean downed a finger of whiskey he turned to Castiel and smiled for him to go.

 

“I was rather, shall we say, inexperienced because, hey! Surprise surprise, 'math nerds' aren’t exactly hot stuff in high school. But then, once I got into the running and swimming teams at Harvard-”

 

“Woah, there, Harvard? Damn, Cas, that’s amazing.”

 

“It was an incredible learning experience for me, one of the happiest times in my life.”

 

“Ok ok, don't Captain, my Captain! me, let’s get on with double M.”

 

“Meg was…” Castiel smiled as he recounted her. “She was this clear-cut obsidian shard. She was dark, smart and possessed such a, such a thorny beauty. And despite her, her front, she was ultimately the sweetest person to me. I confess, I was terribly rude to her at first. I overheard her talking to my roommate and he was flirting mercilessly while she shot him down, and I, being very protective of Balthazar because he was my only friend, barked at her to get away from him. Ironically, that was when she started to become interested in me. And, after some impromptu coffees and walks around campus, she wrestled, well I say wrestled, it didn't take too much persuasion to get me to bed and- My God. I do not exaggerate when I say we shook some furniture loose. I think we rearranged her entire room. Either that or we had never noticed our surroundings in the first place, they were hardly of import.” Dean snorted a little laugh, and Castiel looked deeply into his beer glass before he continued, that little shard scratching impatiently at his heart again. “When they- When they found her body, I was asleep at the time. Sleeping off a hangover in her room. I woke up, everything smelling of her, but of course I thought nothing of that, I had by then started to take advantage of it, and I remember thinking she had gone to get some coffee, because she always did, looking out for me, she had always-” It was painful, it was always painful thinking of Meg because she pulsed beneath his skin every single day. She was the first splatter in his blood stained past. “I never even got to say goodbye, Dean.” His vision started to swim, and his inhibitions were so low he couldn't be bothered to care anymore. “And, a couple of weeks later, when they wrapped up the investigation - a jealous ex-boyfriend, Fergus Crowley, he had just, just stabbed her and I - well, they let people back into her room and there was a small package with my name on it. It was a film, ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’, do you know it?” He looks up to see Dean looking intently at him, eyes lidded with listening to a virtual stranger spill his guts, and there is not a scratch of indignation on him. “She called me Clarence. I never understood the reference, but I knew it was her present for me. She’s the reason, Dean.”

 

“I get that, Cas.” Dean placed a hand on the crook of Castiel’s elbow, rubbing his thumb in a comforting fashion and Castiel felt weighed down for once in his life. He had been so used to being cut loose and misunderstood and for no one trying to know him that he had let himself float above everything - every _one_ \- else. And here was Dean Winchester, anchoring him in a way no one had in a very long time. As Dean rose, Castiel followed his hand that relinquished its grip from his arm, missing the warmth, but soon being consoled by the feeling of Dean holding him upright by linking his arm under Castiel’s and gripping his waist for what felt like dear life. “Let’s get you sorted, Cas. C’mon. Thanks, Ellen.”

 

“You boys be safe, y’hear?”

 

***

 

Dean turned on the radio, permanently tuned into Kansas’ classic rock station. As The Rolling Stones’ rendition of “Paint it Black” sang out from the tiny metal box, Dean’s hand hovered over the dial before Castiel made a noise of indignation. 

 

“Driver picks the music, and shotgun shuts his cakehole, Cas. Them’s the rules.”

 

“Please, Dean, I love this song.”

 

“Really? This? Self-indulgent crap is your style? Jeez Cas, I don’t think we can be friends anymore.”

 

Castiel’s ears perked up for a moment. “We’re… friends?”

 

Dean smiled into his wheel, small at first, then let it get wider to a Cheshire Cat grin. 

 

“Of course we are, Cas. What, you think I treat complete strangers to drinks just 'cause? Plus, you kinda poured your soul out through your liquor back there, so I don’t think we have much choice in the matter. Do you?”

 

Castiel’s heart swelled. Dean had no idea. No idea how much it meant to be accepted so quickly, despite, as Dean had pointed out, pouring his soul out. He had not been scared away by his formal manner, or the fact that he had suspected him to be a  _serial killer_. Castiel inwardly kicked himself for ever thinking something so stupid. 

 

“No, Dean.” The song rang out and Castiel couldn’t help but sing along, slurring along with Mick Jagger over the scratchy melody.

 

“I see people turn their heads and quickly look away,” he turned to Dean and smiled, before he turned back and started to sing into his fist like a microphone, the open road his willing audience and Dean harmonised quietly. “Like a newborn baby it just happens ev'ryday” Castiel turned back and laughed “You do like this song!” 

 

“Yeah yeah shut up.” Dean retorts, smothering a smile.

 

Castiel's voice lowered to a growl for the upcoming verse “I look inside myself and see my heart is black, I see my red door and it has been painted black. Maybe then I'll fade away and not have to face the facts,” Castiel sang passionately, closing his eyes. “It's not easy facing up when your whole world is baah-lack!”

 

“Ok, headliner, enough of that,” Dean switched the dial off, but Castiel had had his fun and leaned back, sated by the fact that he just sang to Dean, and pretty well considering how much he drank. 

 

“It reminds me of my college days. The happier ones, obviously.”

 

Dean laughed at that. “Just how old are you, man?”

 

“Dean, can I tell you something?”

 

“Something tells me I won’t be able to stop you, so,” he sighed theatrically, rolling his eyes, “go ahead.” 

 

“There are days where I think I’m old as God.”

 

The thrum of the Impala didn't shield the fact that he could practically feel Dean’s smile seeping through his pores. He knew the feeling. Of course he does, Castiel thought, letting his chin sink into his chest, letting his guard down just so as he drifts away, because it's ok. He's got an anchor now. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own the Doors either, yadda yadda, you know the drill darlings.


	6. Bull in a China Shop

Castiel was barely awake when he was confronted by a swarm of bees in his vision, hearing the buzzing loud and metallic in his ears, and swatted around so hard at absolutely nothing that he fell off of the sofa where he had seemingly spent the night with a resounding thud. He cautiously felt around for some purchase to regain any semblance of orientation but apparently leaning on a precariously piled stack of books was not the solution. As they fell forward he was startled awake as he watched a bunch of papers fly up comedically everywhere. Half of them weren’t even written in English. Some of them didn’t even contain the Latinised alphabet. Hieroglyphics? As he attempted to look through bleary eyes to understand his surroundings better, he realised he was not in the dreary motel room he had bought for the couple of weeks he had expected he’d be in Lawrence, Kansas. No, this was a home. Like a train, memories of the night before hurtled into the forefront of Castiel’s mind, singing loudly to an oncoming road and lots of alcohol and-

 

“Rise and shine, Sammy!” a slightly rasping voice erupted from the next room and only served to cause a wave of pain and nausea to reverberate around Castiel’s head as it was joined by the heady smell of bacon, eggs and… Was that tomato juice? Castiel sniffed the air and immediately regretted his decision, putting his head between his knees as a thundering noise came from upstairs. Castiel, in his current state, had only one coherent thought; it sounded like a herd of moose stampeding. He couldn’t, however, bring himself to raise his head until he heard a galumphing down the stairs, to face the culprit that had assaulted him with such noise. A clunking great man with all too much arm and a swathe of hazelnut hair struggling a battered looking t-shirt over his head. The scoundrel, Castiel thought, and he narrowed his eyes.

 

“You don’t have to shout D- Who are you?” The man, Sammy, Castiel assumed, looked rather quizzically over the sofa. Castiel tilted his head as to what he was looking at. Oh, me. 

 

“Good morning, stranger. Want some breakfast? Dean eats like a pig, there’s always plenty for another.”

 

“Shut up, Sam, I’ve already accounted for Cas.” Dean growled, storming into the living area, buttoning a shirt. Castiel looked down to see the unfortunate result of friction when he fell of the sofa, the current time frame of morning, and being part of the male species.  Nothing to do with Dean’s- He looked at the two men standing from his strange vantage point, and settled a little to try and hide his morning wood. Luckily he had a couple of blankets still surrounding him so he feigned tiredness to excuse not getting up too quickly. 

 

“Good morning Dean.” he mumbled sleepily, dragging the back of his hand across his face then realising with a sudden wide-eyed horror that his hair was doing everything it wasn’t meant to, and clearly his expression was so sudden that it elicited low chuckles from the men still standing, cross-armed and staring at Castiel still sitting on the floor.

 

“We’ll, uh, let you adjust, shall we, Cas?” Dean asked discreetly before nodding Sam into the next room.

 

“See you in a minute, stranger.” Sam said. As Castiel looked down hopelessly and absently felt his hair with one hand, Sam decided to pop his head round the corner and Castiel’s head whipped up again.

 

“What’s ‘Cas’ short for anyway?” 

 

“Castiel.” He shifted uncomfortably, one hand scrunched in his hair, the other fighting a battle in his lap.

 

“Casti _el_?” Sam asked incredulously. “Is that a fake name?”

 

“Nope, his fake names are actually more normal than his real one. Now come have your breakfast Sammy.” Dean’s voice called from the next room and Sam chuckled before he left, mocking the sing-song voice Dean had ended on.

 

“Coming, _Mom._ ”

 

“Shut up, bitch.” A chuckle.

 

“Jerk.”

 

Castiel smiled to himself. This would be an interesting breakfast. Certainly the least lonely one he’d had since- well for a while.

 

 

***

 

 

“So, Cas, I’m intrigued. Whatcha doing with a dolt like Dean for your investigation?” Sam said around shovels of food. He received a thwack on the back of the head, but Castiel smiled at their brotherly interaction. After a Winchester hang-over cure concoction (“Tomato juice, golden syrup, touch of vodka swilled around fifteen times plus a celery stick dipped in mustard. Works every time.” Dean had promised) and a gratuitous amount of coffee, bacon and eggs Castiel had regained a posture of pseudo-dignity. 

 

“He is in fact instrumental to navigating the university, and his impressive knowledge of mythology and lore is a great asset to approaching the material.”

 

“See, Sammy? I’m an asset.”

 

“If by asset you mean tool, yup, he’s your man. Dean is a complete tool.”

 

“Alright, that’s it, Bullwinkle.” Dean caught his brother in a head-lock, pulling his hair.

 

“Dean, why is it every time you introduce me to someone, you end up instigating a physical altercation?”

 

“Yeah, _Dean_ , why you gotta pull my hair like a girl too?”  
  
“Girls know how to fight well, and that whole Samson thing you got going on is a weakness Sammy, I can’t help but take advantage of my opponent’s flaws. If you want, I have some clippers, sort this hippy thing right out-”

 

Sam slapped his hands away. “Shut up.”

 

“Dammit, Sam, you look like a homeless model, would it kill you to shave maybe?” Dean let go and flicked Sam’s hair once more for good measure. 

 

“Well, I will, got that job interview in a couple of hours.” Sam said standing to clear his plate and wash up

 

“With Henricksson?” Dean asked, eyes narrowed, voice cautious. 

 

“No, Rufus.” Sam replied, apparently oblivious.

 

“Oh, _Rufus_ , what, you on first name terms with your boss now?” Dean relaxed suddenly, returning to his jokey demeanour.

 

“He told me to call him that when he saw my transcripts. Guess I’m hot stuff ‘round these here parts.” He drawled out a fake Southern accent and smiled as he wiped his wet hands on the sides of his shirt. 

 

“Oh yeah, Cas here is an Ivy Leaguer too.” Dean clapped a hand on Castiel’s back, then let it linger, circling a thumb on his shoulder blade before sliding off. 

 

“That’s cool, where?” Sam’s interest peaked and he sat back down.

 

“Harvard.” Castiel, for some strange reason, had always hated admitting that he was Harvard alumnus. He could never put a finger on why, he had simply always hated the label, the expectation that he was some kind of genius. He hated coming up short. 

 

“Damn! I’m a Stanford man, nice to have an equal around for once.” Sam said playfully, making faces at his older brother.

 

Dean looked up from gathering his and Castiel’s plates. “Shut up.”

 

“No, but seriously Cas, you need to get Dean a job at the bureau, he knows _literally every freaking language under the sun_. Like, he learnt a language, what’s it called Dean? Esperanza or something?” Sam wildly gesticulated before thudding a back-hand to Dean’s chest. 

 

“Esperan _to_ , you uncultured swine. It’s the most widely spoken constructed international auxiliary language-”

 

“Woah, don’t bore the guy, he’s only here for breakfast, right Cas?” Sam turned back to Castiel and clearly hoped for the opposite. Castiel inspected himself, wearing the undershirt and slacks he wore the day before and dreaded the thought of going _anywhere_ for the time being that was outside of this house. 

 

“Actually, it would be preferable to continue our investigation here, less chance of infiltration or distraction.”

 

“Well, guess that’s my cue to leave. Dean, don’t use the sink, you know how it messes with the shower.”

 

“I pwomise pwincess.”

 

“And Cas, if you wanna cheer Dean up, ask him how the foray into hieroglyphics is going.”

 

“I’ll keep that in mind. Good meeting you Sam.”

 

“You too. Hopefully I’ll see you around.”

 

Dean leaned back in his chair and called out: “Bye, bitch.”

 

“Don’t hurt yourself there, jerk.” Sam called back.

 

Dean laughed openly then stood up to gather the files from the living room. “Stupid kid.”

 

“You clearly care for him a great deal.” Castiel gathered supplies from his trench coat, and decided to wear his glasses despite their annoying presence on his nose, his vision required the focus his eyes were not willing to give this morning. 

 

“Course I do, the big lug. Ever since- Ah well, never mind. Let’s just say I’d probably be lost without him.” Dean looked at the thick-rimmed and large square glasses on Castiel’s face that made his eyes twice as big and smiled looking a little confused. “I didn’t know you wore glasses, Cas.”

 

“You have known me little more than twenty-four hours, Dean Winchester. There are plenty of things you don’t know about me.”

 

A comfortable silence bar the rustling of papers settled over the two, the sound of the shower turning on upstairs creating a soft cacophony that evaded awkwardness.  

 

“So, last night.” Dean started to broach. 

 

“Yes, thank you for being such a gracious host, I should have probably told you where I was staying. I did not mean to impose.”

 

“Cas! C’mon, do you remember anything from last night? You’re my friend, ok? My couch is your couch. I was worried you’d throw up or something, so I stayed up a little longer to-” He stopped himself and looked a little like a deer in the headlights, and Castiel realised that not only had he been staring but his mouth was slightly agape. 

 

“I mean, I didn’t _watch_ you sleeping, I mean, ugh, I was up anyway. Papers. Grading papers. I was sat in the chair- Just, y’know, armed with a bucket, just in case. Didn’t wanna get puke on my… books and… stuff.” He trailed off once he noticed Castiel beaming ear to ear. “What’s that, that grin for, Cas?” He smiled in return.

 

“Thank you very much for staying up, adjacent, armed with a bucket last night, Dean. That’s all.” 

 

Dean smiled, small at first, let it retract, then looked down and let it grow, letting those creases fold again. Castiel gulped. This was potentially becoming a problem, this feeling rutting a little lower than his stomach. 

 

“You were pretty gone, Cas. Anyone in your state woulda probably- Anyway, so what’s on the agenda today?”

 

“Well, we are whittling down potential psychopaths among your student roster.”

 

“Sounds like a perfect Wednesday to me.”

 

“This is incredibly unprofessional of me.”

 

“Hey man, whatever gets the job done and gets this freak off the streets.”

 

 

***

 

 

“Ok, so, I’ve got about nineteen students and only twelve of them turned up to every single lecture. While that is kinda depressing on my part, it makes this side of things a little easier to slim down the pack beforehand. How do we decide which one of ‘em could have done it?”

 

“Well, we’ll need to start with body type. Every victim was drugged, but there was still an ostensible need for strength in the execution of the post-mortem activity.”

 

“Ok, well, that rules out Sara, Christian and Billy Duncan Junior. They’re weedy as all hell.”

 

“Billy Duncan Junior?”

  
  
“Had to put the Duncan in there. People had tried shortening his name to his initials. Although, I think putting the D in BJ only exacerbated things but hey.” Dean joked and Castiel snorted a laugh while he crossed three names off. “Ok, and Sue Ellen and Johnny S are going steady so I reckon he’s a little too busy.”

 

“Dean, we can’t rule people out because they’re in a couple.”

 

“As in, while they are present in lectures, their heads don’t quite join ‘em. They’re the ones who spell Wendigo with Y’s.”

 

“Alright you make a valid point. Whoever is committing these crimes is obsessed with you in some way. They would never, even to throw off suspicion, show you they do not pay attention.”

 

“In which case, scrub off Steph and Lizzie. Phones clattering, every five minutes.”

 

“Stephanie Coster… Elizabeth,” Castiel stuck his tongue out searching for the name. “Bennet. Ha. Like the character?”

 

“Trust me, already given her digs about it. Whenever she’s late I riff about Mr Darcy not being quite the gentleman she thought, maybe she shoulda reserved some of those prejudices so she could conserve her pride, yadda yadda. Yeah, she hates me. It’s hilarious.”

 

“Your relationship with your students is curious.”

 

“Hey, no funny business. I just, they’re my kids. Well, not mine, Professor Heyerdahl’s, but you know what I mean.”

 

“Are you worried?”

 

“Like hell.”

 

“Let’s press on then. Perhaps we can press on and find that none are apt candidates.”

 

“I hope so.”

 

 

***

 

 

“So, we have George because he’s a total charmer but he seems to be all front, his writing is a little too creepily accurate and he focuses on the gore. Johnny P because I see him pissed off more than anyone at the Johnny Sue Ellen PDA, Lana because she’s got that intense stare and Kali because I saw her beat up another TA, what’s his name, Gabriel? Gabriel Goodwin? Yeah, and he was twice her size, so she could easily take on a dead body,” Dean shivered at the thought, “and Pierre… Why is my French Fry a suspect again?”

 

“Because of your affection towards him as a protege, and also as a non-English speaking student, you will have given more attention to him when he may have been otherwise isolated, breeding a possible obsession.”

 

“But why the hell would any of these kids be obsessed with _me_?”

 

“Clearly the killer is attracted to your intelligence, and Pierre seems to be a strong candidate considering your affinity with languages.”

 

Dean started to squirm in his seat. Castiel was genuinely puzzled. “Cas, I’m really not that intelligent, all I know is all I know, and that ain’t a lot.”

 

“Remind me how many Indian dialects you’re fluent in? And what _is_ Esperanto again, you were so excited explaining it I think you started speaking in Italian just to get the ‘right words’ as you say…”

 

“Alright, shut up, Cas, it’s not that great. Evident of my lack of a social life, nothin’ else.”

 

Castiel felt an inconsolable choke rise up in his throat like bile. “You really shouldn’t be so self-deprecating, Dean. It is quite frustrating to see someone like yourself with so little faith in their talent and intelligence.”

 

“There you go, again.”

 

“What?”

 

“That recycled bullcrap that’s meant to motivate assholes like me. I’m just a TA. In one of the most obscure areas of education there could possibly be. I mean, look at you Cas. Theoretical physics? At freaking Harvard? My kind of branching out is specifically looking at Yōkai when I look at Japanese mythical creatures and folklore. _Yours_ is becoming a  friggin’ expert in psychology! You and me, we’re just not on the same level, and once you’re done with this case, you’re just, you’re just gonna leave. I mean, why the hell would you stay here when you got the bureau and all those other brainboxes out there-”

 

“Please stop, Dean.” 

 

Although his voice was low, it reverberated with a rare kind of rage that commanded Dean’s silence without the implied imperative itself. 

 

“Stop questioning my judgement. This self-deprecation is clearly an off-set of abandonment issues and the like and it’s not going to catch this killer. _We_ are not going to catch this killer if you don’t stop acting like a troubled teenager and start accepting that you, your knowledge, your way of thinking, are essential to this operation and to catching this person who is _murdering people_.” The harshness of his words were not lost on Castiel, and he softened when he saw Dean look away as if he’d been punched squarely in the face. He quietened, so much so Dean might have missed what he said. “Whatever has made you feel like you are worthless, I wish I could take it away, I wish I could strangle the life out of it, stop it sucking you dry. It is honestly horrific that you live such a half-life, Dean, because even now you-” Castiel sighed for a lack of the right word, the perfect word. “I just wish that you would see yourself whole, because then you would see what everyone else sees.”

 

Castiel felt a great tension suddenly creep up his shoulders like flaming claws. He did not dare look at Dean. He was terrified that what he said may have been taken as the warmth against his stomach had been directing it. Terrified that after that outburst, Dean _knew._ Castiel couldn’t bear to let it hang in the air.

 

“You are worth more than you think, and you deserve to know that. That’s… all I meant. For the good of this investigation, I need you to trust me.”

 

“Ok, Cas.” Castiel’s head shot up to look over at Dean finally. Dean was looking at the files intently. His eyes were bright, as if they had threatened tears, but finally managed to maintain composure. “Let’s do this.”

 

“I’m sorry for-”

 

“Cas.” Dean commanded, looking directly into Castiel’s eyes. His jaw was straight with determination, the small smile gone. “You’ve pushed enough buttons today. You’re right, we need to focus on the main task here.”

 

Castiel nodded but felt sour just behind his eyes. There was a taste of ash in his mouth, then suddenly a burst of copper. He had chewed the inside of his cheek until it had bled. He had not noticed. 

 

“You don’t understand, Dean. It’s hard.”

 

“What, being a genius is hard? Give me a break, Cas. Being a genius is the universe’s equivalent of a happy ending, especially with your-” He suddenly blushed furiously, freckles contrasting against pink. “I mean, well, you know. The point is,” he continued rather flustered, “life is not _hard_ for you. You’re friggin’ FBI for crying out loud! Doing what you love, getting money and being around like-minded people.”

 

“No.” Castiel said quietly. 

 

“What?”

 

“They are not like-minded people. Not really. They all had always had ambitions for the FBI. I was propositioned. I had never even thought about law enforcement before Meg, and I-” he stopped himself. He was being wholly unprofessional. “Look, I’m not going to explain to you, Dean. You clearly don’t want to know.” He huffed and looked down, anything to stop this conversation. 

 

Excellent, now that’s _much_ better, Castiel thought bitterly as an atmosphere thick and humid descended around the two men as they attempted to work in silence. Quiet and reserved Castiel had no idea the cogs whirring within Dean’s mind, unlocking and whirring to decipher the code he had hidden in his words, trying to find his trick, his reason for leaving, to no avail. Unfortunately for him, Castiel did not want to leave.  

 

 

 

 

 


	7. To No Avail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry it's been so long since my last update, but hey, better late than never? ANYWAY, here's a new one for ya, enjoy!

It remained somewhat cold between the two for a while after Castiel’s outburst. But, ever the professional (despite the fact that it was not his responsibility) Dean remained dedicated to the cause. Castiel had even started to unnerve Dean in the manner that he had started to inquire as to whether he was “ok”. 

 

“Jeez, Cas, I’m fine, would you stop friggin’ asking me that?”

 

“Sorry.”

 

“Stop- Know what? Never mind, get in the car.”

 

The journey to the college campus was terse, and Castiel was almost certain he only exhaled five times the whole way. Once they entered the building, Castiel realised he was not leading the way, Dean was, so every time he wanted to storm off in one direction, he was aware that Dean had carried on walking down another corridor and was waiting and had better things to do than wait around all day, so stop running off, Cas. Get it together, Castiel, he muttered to himself.

***

 

They settled into Dean’s office, Castiel in Dean’s seat whilst Dean took the infinitely more comfortable looking armchair. Castiel cursed the progression of ergonomics in furniture design as he silently looked over the case files he’d already practically memorised, simply to avoid looking at his temporary partner. The only sound in the small space was Dean’s constant shifting and Castiel flipping pages back and forth. Thankfully, Dean broke first.

 

“Look, er, they’re probably not going to be as, y’know, forthcoming if you tell ‘em you’re a fed, so I dunno, tell ‘em you’re interviewing them for a potential scholarship next year. I’ve only ever watched those damn cop shows channel hopping, but you can tell what they’re hiding by what they omit…” Dean trailed off as he stared back at Castiel, who’d clearly been staring since Dean started talking.  “I mean, if I’m talkin’ out of my ass, tell me, don’t freakin’-”

 

“No, Dean.” he interrupted, quick enough to not let Dean ramble on down the road of self-deprecation. “I’m, always surprised at your uncanny knack for this, you take very well in aiding my work, it’s just… Your initiative. It’s still..." he concluded rather lamely, "for want of another word, surprising.”

 

“You said that.” Dean’s voice sounded jokey, but low and understanding. He’d started looking deeply into Castiel’s eyes, and he could have sworn he saw his eyes flick south, for a hummingbird’s wingbeat of a moment.

 

“I did, didn’t I.” Castiel wanted to stare for just a little longer... 

 

A rapt knock on the awning startled them both, and they turned comically in sync to see George, smartly dressed with a bundle of files under his arm, beaming at both men.

 

“Not interrupting anything, am I?” he asked, surprisingly avoiding any lascivious connotations in his tone. 

 

Dean stood up stiffly to close the door behind him. “Er, no, George, come right on in. This is…”

 

“James Collins, Harvard University.” Castiel was quick to smile warmly at George, clasping his hands in front of him so as to shield the files which may alert his suspicions. 

 

“Oh, jeez, Harvard, that’s, that’s great!” George enthused, sitting down in front of the desk without taking his eyes off Castiel. “I really would love to work on my post-grad thesis at Harvard, although,” he nods at Dean conspiratorially, “KU has the _best_ collection of lore _ever_.” Clearly knows how to manipulate people into feeling important, Castiel thought to himself, but hardly the at the level of a calculating murderer, more a successful businessman.

 

“Well, George, that’s encouraging. See, we’re interviewing a selected few of your classmates to assess who would be eligible for a scholarship for next year.” Castiel continued, unfazed by George’s extroverted display of pseudo-camaraderie. 

 

“Oh, I’d hate to badmouth any of the other guys, but Mr Winchester knows for sure, I’d be the best candidate on the list.”

 

Dean started to look intrigued. “Why do you say that, George?”

 

“Well, I mean, I did three extra credit assignments last week, and that’s pretty much a regular occurrence, especially since Mr W is so focused on getting us to branch out of what we _need_ to know, to actually teach us something.”

 

Castiel felt a slightly chilled relief settle within him; this student clearly was simply incredibly thorough in his assignments, rather than being unnaturally drawn to torture. He probably wouldn’t have even had time to commit murder in between his clearly very busy workload.

 

“You have an impressive work ethic, George. We’ll be in contact.” Castiel elicited another warm smile, and George, seemingly satisfied with that, walked out with a wave to Dean.

 

As he left, Dean sighed, massaging his brow in frustration, it seems. 

 

“God, the kid’s like an anti-Willy Loman… kinda frightening in its own right, but not our guy, right?”

 

“Right.” Castiel replied gruffly. 

 

“You play Mr. Admissions pretty well though.”

 

“It’s my job to act superior Dean, I’d have thought you’d cottoned onto that by now.”

 

Dean snorted and took George’s file along with Lana’s, shuffling through the papers absent-mindedly. “God, you’re a douche.”

 

“That’s _Mister_ Douche to you, Winchester.”

 

Dean was still smiling as Lana walked in, clad in a fluffy yellow jumper with suspicious red marks near the collar. Clearly Castiel wasn’t being particularly conspicuous as Lana looked down nervously, eyes widening. 

 

“Oh, no! I knew I shouldn’t have had stroganoff for lunch…” She licked her sleeve and started to dab at the marks to little avail. “Darn it.. I never learn.”

 

“Hello, Lana, I’m James Collins, I’m a chairman at Harvard University.”

 

“George said you’d given him a scholarship for next year, so what am I doing here?” she asked uncertainly, with a clear hint of bitterness towards George.

 

“He said that, huh?” Dean smirked. “Well, the cocky ones always think they’ve won before the race has started, don’t even worry about him, Lana.”

 

“So, I’m still up for the scholarship?” she stared intently at Dean rather than Castiel, and he found it strangely irritating, especially since it was clearly making Dean uncomfortably shift around in his chair, doing anything to avoid her laser-beam gaze. 

 

“Erm, yeah, sure, whatever, Lana.” Dean mumbled. 

 

“Lana, could you tell me why exactly you enjoy your course, why you think _you_ are more deserving than your other classmates?” Castiel said with a bit of bite. 

 

“Well, Mr Winchester’s a really good teacher- ”

 

“I’m not asking you about that, I’m asking you about your dedication to the course. Why do you think _you_ should receive a significant amount of money in order to continue your studies here? Are you anything special? What can you bring to this marvellous institution?” Castiel snapped with more venom than necessary. Dean looked shocked as he watched him, but he didn’t care. 

 

“I- I don’t know.” Lana blanched. “I- What am I doing?” she stood up, whimpering a little, as Dean watched Castiel with a look of complete horror on his face.

 

“Well, you let us know how you feel when you can, alright Lana?” Dean offered, and she looked a little less downhearted. 

 

“Will this affect my grade, Mr Winchester?”

 

“Nope, you’ll be alright, just, er, see you on Tuesday, ok?”

 

“OK.”

 

As she shuffled out, Castiel felt a wave of shame come over him. 

 

“I apologise for being… less than professional, Dean.”

 

“Don’t say sorry to me, you scared the crap outta that girl!”

 

“She’ll be alright? I haven’t, destroyed the dreams of the ‘new generation’?” Castiel air quoted.

 

Dean laughed, thank God. “She’ll be alright, Cas, I just think you need to tone it down a little.” Slightly more to himself, he added, “I can handle myself y’know.”

 

Castiel looked at the remaining files. “It shouldn’t take too much longer.”

 

***

 

It did. Dean could feel the hours dripping away and they only had one more “suspect” left, since Kali had simply been pissed at Gabriel when he’d been flirting with someone or other and insisted she’d never do that to anyone, calling them petty little men, not a whole lot of fun. And Johnny P? Well he’d only had beef about Sue Ellen’s PDA because he found it gross. Basically, they were your average weird-but-not-psychotic students, and Pierre was their most promising lead. But Dean didn’t want him to be.

 

“What… What happens to them?”

 

“Who?” Castiel asked without looking up from re-reading Pierre’s last assignment. 

 

“I mean, French Fr- Pierre. What happens if you think he’s the guy?”

 

Castiel slowly turned to him, and Dean heard himself gulp.

 

“I’ll take it up with my superiors and ask how to proceed. It’s not… Justice isn’t really in my jurisdiction. Once we make the arrest, field agents anyway, their fate isn’t really in our hands anymore.” He looked down at Dean’s hand, and before Dean could have a bitch fit over it, Cas had placed his hand over it, swiping a thumb over Dean’s fingers. Cas ducked his head down a little and flicked his eyes back up to look, really _look_ at Dean. “I’m sorry. For what it’s worth, I hope it’s not him.”

 

Dean looked into those deep blue eyes and that same feeling back at the house stirred low inside him, and he didn’t even hear Pierre call his name.

 

“Mr Winche- Dean!”

 

“Huh, yeah erm what, I mean, who?” Dean stood up and the moment was over and Pierre! Pierre was here. Great. Yes. Mind, focused… Or something. Case! That's it. 

 

“Yes, Dean, you asked to see me?” he pointedly looked at Castiel, furrowing his brow and- was that… Was Pierre jealous? Man, I sure have a bunch of crazies in my class, Dean thought. Though, that'd be sweet, if we were- Dammit, focus Dean.  

 

“This is James Collins, he’s- ” 

 

“Are you two- ” Pierre started, then looked down, “I mean, I don’t want to be, assuming, y’know, but are you two… ‘together’ together?” Big puppy-dog eyes stare Dean down, and an idea pops into his head.

 

“Ye-Yes! Yes we are, this is my partner, Jimmy, and we’ve been together, what is it sweetie, three years now?” Dean rambled, hoping that Cas is catching on. There’s a glint and he seems to be on board.

 

“Yes. Three years. Very happily together. We have a cat.”

 

“Named him Lucifer. Always peeing on the welcome mat.” Dean settled into his seat to watch Cas do his thing. 

 

“Is there a problem here?” Cas, smooth move, man, Dean thought.

 

“N-no, no there’s… I need to go… somewhere. See you on Tuesday, D- ” Pierre faltered and looked at his shoes disparagingly, “Mr Winchester.” As he shuffled out, Dean looked side-long at Cas, smiling ear to ear. 

 

“Not him, is it?”

 

“What?” Cas snapped out of it, apparently totally not here. “I mean, yes, hardly a criminal mastermind, how... fortunate.”

 

“Not really, Cas, we still don’t have our perp.”

 

“‘Perp’?” Cas smiled.

 

“Hey, don’t get your feathers all ruffled up over squat, I’m allowed to use the lingo if I want.”

 

“I don’t have fea- You’re making a joke.”

 

“Yeah, funny, I do that sometimes.” Dean grinned. 

 

“Can we just go ho- to your house, please, I’m exhausted. How you manage more than one of these at a time is a feat unto itself.”

 

As they headed to the Impala, Dean felt like something had shifted between the two, had shifted as soon as Dean felt those coarse hands over his. He prayed to every deity he knew of that Cas felt it too.


	8. A Dam Breaking

Instead of going straight back home, Dean decided to take Castiel out for diner food and discuss the case a little, speculate.

 

“So, based on my lesson plan, which by the way, has made me less cavalier in what I teach these guys, holy shit, the next… bump-in-the-dark ghoulie this guy’s gonna emulate is a Wendigo.”

 

“That is the… Native American cannibal, is it not?”

 

“Right on, Cas, look at you class swot!” Dean grinned without any malice and if only the Bureau could make him feel as accomplished by saying so little.

 

“They typically string up and keep their victims, do they not?”

 

“Yup. Don’t mind me audibly freakin’ shuddering over here.”

 

They continued attempting to track a pattern to where the attacks had been happening in proximity to the university, finding that it must be within a five-mile radius of it.

 

“So, you’re saying it’s most likely to be- ”

 

“Someone working at or around the university, yes, since we’ve ruled out your actual students.”

 

“Someone with access to my lesson plans, who’s,” he snorted humourlessly, looking down with a skilfully concealed look of shame, “friggin’- friggin’ obsessed. With _me_.” He looked out the window and his smile had disappeared and Castiel couldn’t help but desperately wish he didn't hold himself accountable for the bad things that happened around him, as if he were a comet burning through lives with no care for consequence, when he was the exact opposite. 

 

“It’s not your fault, Dean.”

 

“You would say that Cas.”

 

“You should know that I never say anything I do not mean around those I trust.”

 

And somehow, somehow he’s said something magic because the sun hit Dean’s eyes just so and they brightened, just for Castiel. His own private universe. 

 

“Hey, man, no, er, no chick-flick moments. That’s Samantha’s area.”

 

He didn’t stop smiling though and Castiel felt the corners of his mouth twitch as his own smile reached his eyes. 

 

***

 

Castiel felt like he was caught on the night of an electric storm that was compacted entirely within the sleek Chevy Impala. The heavier mood that had permeated that morning’s journey was replaced instead with Castiel looking off distantly as he thought of Dean’s stare, Dean’s calloused hands, their pretence of being together being more than pretence… It seemed as if every time he tried to swat the thoughts away they piled back on tenfold. So he let the dam break, and that’s where the trouble truly started. 

 

As soon as they reached the Winchester residence, a thought seemed to pass over Dean’s face, and he scrambled in the back seat and checked the trunk for…

 

“Dean, what are you looking for?”

 

“I think I left- No, shit, no I’m sure I left my damn papers in my office.” He ran a hand through his hair and Castiel followed it, briefly mesmerised as a shy smirk broke across Dean’s face. “S’pose got a bit distracted today…”

 

“Wonder what could have been so,” and a hitch in Castiel’s throat suddenly tore the sentence a new meaning, “distracting.”

 

“I’m real sorry, Cas, I shouldn’t drag you along, so I’ll just pop there and back. If you can stand the Sasquatch, that is.”

 

“I’m sure Sam and I will be fine on our own.”

 

“Awesome.” The smirk widened and Castiel allowed himself to stare a little longer before-

 

“Er, Dean.”

 

“Yeah, Cas?”

 

“Papers.”

 

“Yeah. Yeah! Yeah, got it, going, going," he drawled, before he quickly amended, "see ya in an hour? Might get held up by Singer, y’know how it is.”

 

“I have actually never worked at an educational institu- ”

 

“Rhetorical, man. See you in a bit.”

 

As Dean got into the car and revved up the engine, Castiel became acutely aware of just how much of a stupor he was in, and winced at his less-than-professional displays. Sam appeared at the door and waved.

 

“Hey Cas! Where’s Dean off to?”

 

“Back to the university for some papers he forgot.”

 

“Oh. Well, y’want a beer?”

 

“I could indeed use some alcohol. Thank you Sam.”

 

***

 

Although Sam and Dean were leagues apart in personality, their talent for camaraderie was clearly shared. Sam heated up some nachos and they settled on the sofa swamped with books and just talked. It had been a while since Castiel had been so sociable.

 

As Sam proceeded to regale Castiel with embarrassing stories of Dean’s youth - “Dude, you shoulda seen this guy, he was _huge_ and Dean tried to sock him in the jaw. Can you imagine it, this skinny 13 year old, tryna take down the leader of a biker gang ‘cause he thought he was intimidating this random lady… Man, chivalrous to the point of endangerment, y’know?” - Castiel’s hazy ideal of Dean became more rounded, clarified in a way. Dean was not simply a dedicated, albeit emotionally-stunted man, he was better than that, more complex than people tended to assume, which he readily took advantage of. But he decided that to truly understand Dean, it would be better to understand his brother.

 

“Sam, I hope this is does not seem like an imposition, but why do you perpetuate your codependency with Dean? Surely you’d be happier if you grew as individuals rather than viewing yourselves as necessary counterparts to each other?”

 

Sam almost spit his drink out. “Wow, Cas. Y’don’t pull your punches much, do you?”

 

“Like I said, I do not wish to impose. I am simply fascinated.”

 

“With Dean, y’mean? Fascinated with Dean?” A sly grin crawled along Sam's face and Castiel froze. Sam was far too perceptive for his own good. 

 

“Relax, man. You two goo-goo eye at each other all you want. But of you really wanna know, Dean’s got his fair amount of baggage.” He laughed self-deprecatingly, another trait he unfortunately shared with his brother. "Namely, me, to be frank with you."

 

At this, Castiel started a little. He didn’t know whether it was too intimate to find out about this side of Dean without his knowing. 

 

Castiel decided to change tact, trying out a more conversational topic. “Why don’t you tell me how you two started living together? Weren’t you happy at Stanford?”

 

Sam visibly blanched and Castiel put his beer down and braced Sam’s chest with his hand as he swayed forward slightly; he looked as though he was going to faint.

 

“Sam, I’m sorry, please, you don’t have to tell me.”

 

“No, no, Cas, it’s- ” he leaned back against the sofa and tipped his head back, staring at the ceiling. “It’s fine. I should talk about it. My therapist keeps telling me I should, ah,” and he smiled, faintly at least, “gently peel back the layers, inspect, and put back. Something about visualising the wound without letting it control me? I dunno, you'd probably get that better than I do. Hence the onion analogy.”

 

“You’ve… had a psychotic break? Before?”

  
“Ok.” Sam seemed to put on a stance, like he was on auto-pilot, recalling basic information instead of a traumatic event, which Castiel assumed this must have been. He took another beer from the fridge as Sam settled himself and let him carry on. “When I was at Stanford, I was pre-law, and I had a lot of good friends. My best friend was pre-med. Jessica Moore. She was like- I dunno, Dean met her once and threatened to propose if I didn’t. I had a ring all set in my pocket. I’d actually called Dean up because I wanted him to be there, like introducing her to the family once and for all. I mean, it’s been just me and Dean for so long, and I wanted her to know that I- anyway, the night before, her apartment caught fire.”

 

“Sam, I’m sorry.”

 

Sam frowned, as if he was trying to decipher a phrase for a crossword. “No, but, they found out later, autopsy reports or whatever, they found out that Jessica’s stomach had been slit, and there were markings on the doorframe and animal blood everywhere. It had been a fertility sacrifice or something. That’s what Dean said, anyway.”

 

Castiel furrowed his brow. “Dean? How did he know?”

 

“He’s been fascinated with the occult and stuff all his life. He used to joke that he could put a spell on Dad. Make him fall asleep after drinking instead of…” Sam swallowed, audibly. "He wasn't really the same after Mom, and Dean, he made sure he got the brunt of it, being bigger at the time."

 

“What happened to your mother, Sam?” Panic alarms started droning in Castiel’s ears. Interest in the occult. Charm offensive. Abusive parent. Codependency issues. 

 

“She died when I was a baby. House fire. It was arson, but they never found the guy who did it.”

 

“Where was it started, Sam?”

 

Sam started for a moment. Gears whirring. He wasn’t on autopilot anymore. 

 

“Sam, tell me, I think your brother might- ” No Castiel, don’t push, he’s not stable.

 

“Might what, be a suspect?” Sam scoffed but it was too late. Fear was burning through him and Castiel had started it. 

 

Slowly, he probed. He was overreaching, but he needed to know. “Where did the fire start, Sam?”

 

“Inside… Inside the house.”

 

“And where did the fire that burned Jessica’s body start?”

 

“Cas, stop.” Sam slammed his hands over his ears, sinking off of the sofa, humming with an edge of panic.

 

“Sam, where does Dean go?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“Sam, I need to know, please, it can’t be, but I need to be sure.” I need to be sure I haven’t just been duped by a sadistic serial killer. That I haven’t fallen for fucking psychopath.

 

“I DON’T KNOW! JESS I'M-” Sam was screaming now, and suddenly the sound pierced through and Castiel noticed Dean had been gone for three hours now. He could be working on his next victim, and Castiel had been drinking with his _brother_. The Bureau were going to have his head for this. He wouldn't be surprised if they locked him away too. He was too close.  

 

“Sam, I’m sorry.” He placed his hand on Sam’s head, and Sam screamed as if he had been burned. “Please, no, please, get away from me, don’t hurt her, she didn’t…” And Sam, bright Sam, jokey Sam, devoted to his older brother Sam, turned off the lights behind his eyes and Castiel knew he had done something unspeakable. But he was on a case, and he would not let Dean claim another victim.

 

As he pushed out of the ruined house, he kid himself tears weren’t pricking his eyes. 

 

_I’ve got to get to that university._


	9. Just Out of Focus

Castiel was a seasoned runner but to get all the way to the university still took far too long. Exhausted he ran to the building to see if it was still open. Although the main building was open, Professor Singer’s office was dark. He ran to the lecture hall, wondering if there were still any teachers here. He wanted to call for back-up but there was still a stubborn unwavering part of him which begged his mind, despite fevered arguments to the contrary, to believe Dean was innocent. 

 

As he burst into the lecture hall he was greeted by empty seats. Except for the front desk.

 

“What do you think you’re doing, barging in here? This is a university, not a playground, boy.”

 

The nasal voice had a sobering effect and he looked up to see a wiry, almost sickly-looking man, rummaging around in Dean’s desk. He had a scruff of a beard, a drawn face, but his eyes were like murky pools, staring at Castiel, giving him a sense of unease. 

 

“I’m looking for- ”

 

“Dean, yes I know. I’ve seen you two flitting about the campus, interrupting the studious atmosphere with your… dalliances.”

 

“Sir, regardless, I need to find him. This is a murder investigation.”

 

The man’s eyes didn’t change. Castiel squinted, scrutinising how schooled this man’s body language was, like he was putting on an air of indifference despite the fact he had straightened his posture considerably. 

 

“Why would you need Dean? He’s a grunt, just a TA. He hasn’t got two brain cells to rub together, what makes you think he could murder someone and get away with it?”

 

“I do not need to disclose any further information, I simply need to know his whereabouts. If you don’t know, I’ll go.”

 

The man smiled as he opened a drawer. “This is my classroom, you know, boy.”

 

“Please refrain from calling me boy, it’s unnecessary and patronising.”

 

“But it’s such fun.”

 

Amid the strangeness of this conversation and the adrenaline, Castiel caught onto something that itched at him. _His_ classroom?

 

“Who are you?”

 

“The renowned Professor Alastair Heyerdahl, of course! Hasn’t Dean been waxing lyrical about me on your playdates?” He had a way of toying with the words in his mouth before he said them that made Castiel inwardly shudder. 

 

“Why have you never come to me regarding my investigation? Professor Singer informed me that _you_ were an expert, and yet Dean was far more helpful as a consultant. It seems he’s eclipsed you, especially with his application of the study.”

 

Alastair somehow stalked across the room so quickly it was almost as if he materialised next to Castiel, grabbing his arm and dragging him to the desk.

 

“Boy, he is nothing, do you hear?” He hissed into Castiel’s ear. “Absolute filth. I drew him out of the dirt and he thinks he can _replace_ me, hmm?” 

 

Castiel ripped himself away but Alastair grabbed his neck with surprising grip. 

 

“Your skin… it looks so…” he drew a long tongue from Castiel’s chin to his left eye and Castiel could feel his stomach lurch with a pure unadulterated nausea, and his need to show no reaction intensified, “ _tender._ ” 

 

Alastair reached behind him with his other hand, but Castiel kicked him as he drew a syringe out of his desk, full of a slightly viscous liquid. Alastair drew back, holding the syringe like a dagger, Castiel grabbed his wrist and with a flick of his hand turned it on the attacker himself. It pierced him through the neck and Castiel pushed, procedure be damned. 

 

“Where is Dean?” Castiel growled, fisting Alastair’s shirt in his hand and pulls him almost completely off the ground. 

 

Alastair winces, and Castiel feels something dark clutch his heart. “If you don’t tell me I’ll slit your throat without another word.”

 

The man actually laughed, the needle still embedded in his neck. “Good luck getting to the boiler room without a key. Your boyfriend’s lost quite a bit of blood by now.” Castiel dropped him to the floor, stopping only to grab his collar and land a sucker punch to Alastair’s cheek, knocking him out cold. Castiel’s lungs burned but he had to find the boiler room.

 

_Dear lord, what have I done._

 

***

 

The boiler room, as predicted, was locked, but Castiel hammered against the wood, and when he kicked it in, it splintered at the hinges. Never before had Castiel felt such fire, such bright passion stirring him on. He didn’t know what he was doing _I've_ _got no goddamn idea what I'm doing._ He’d always known what to do but everything was whirring too quickly for him to analyse. He’d gotten far too close. 

 

“DEAN!” He bellowed into the steam, ignoring the raw pain in his throat.

 

“DEAN PLEASE ANSWER ME!” 

 

Nothing.

 

Castiel ran into the darkness. His lungs were rubbing up against each other, he’d run so far and _Dean_ _has to be here_. 

 

Then he heard something. 

 

A groan. A creaking sound.

 

Castiel tried to slow down the hammering in his ears, his heart pounding too fast. He followed the quiet sounds. 

 

He heard a blood-curdling gurgle, around the corner.

 

“Dean?” He cupped his face too quickly, noticing two cuts on Dean's left cheek as his hand came away bloody; his shirt open and his shoes and socks removed. As were his toenails and two toes on his left foot. The dismembered toes were no-where to be seen.

 

Castiel had seen his fair share of crime scene photos. He’d been stirred to work a job purely for vindication of the victims, still having to desensitise himself to a certain extent. Now? He imagined actually slitting Alastair’s throat, the blood pouring over his hands because that is the only way he could ever imagine making it up to Dean.

 

He had to assess the situation at hand. Calm. Composure. Wasn't that what Castiel did best?

 

As far as he could see, Dean’s hands were bound with rope, which dangled him from a large main pipe, his feet only really ghosting the ground under near-dead weight. With the shallow cuts on Dean’s abdomen, Castiel observed that Alastair was trying to elicit the most amount of pain, but he’d still clearly been drugged, and a stab wound just missing any vital organs (he hoped) was slowly bleeding him. He would live, but he desperately needed a hospital.

 

Taking one of the knives at Dean’s feet, Castiel started to saw through the rope, hooking his arm around Dean to stop him from falling. It seemed to take a lifetime for the strands to fray and split, but Dean was in his arms and Castiel felt him to be weightless. 

“Come on, Dean, wake up, wake up for me, please.”

 

As he dragged Dean to his car, he desperately searched for Dean’s phone and called the Bureau. He had enough common sense to know he had a job to do, but his priority was breathing far too shallowly.  

 

“This is Special Agent Novak. Charlie Alpha 6 50, Field Division. I need back-up on an injured suspect, send back-up and crime scene to Lecture Hall B, Peterman Hall, Kansas University, NOW.”

 

As he revved the Impala, he propped Dean up against him.

 

***

 

As Castiel sped down a highway in desperate search for a hospital, Dean started to wake up a little.

 

“Aw, crap… Cas, are you getting ketchup on my baby? You know how long it takes to get stains outta leather?” his voice was groggy, as if he was just waking up from sleep.

 

“Dean- ” Castiel's voice was going to betray him, and he didn't care. 

 

“Oh, who am I kiddin’, I can’t stay mad at you.”

 

“Dean, that’s your blood. You’ve been drugged and drained of blood and I’m taking you to the hospital.” He said it so clinically, yet it burrowed itself into his bones. _You did this you did this you did this-_

 

“Oh.”

 

“Yeah, _oh_! This is serious Dean, stay conscious, it is of great import.”

 

“Sheesh, Cas, calm down.”

 

“I will NOT ‘calm down’, Dean, I almost lost you tonight, and that’s on me, so stop joking around!” Castiel could feel his voice breaking and god, he was a mess. He stared at Dean and found him with a shit-eating grin on his face.

 

“How can you be _smiling_  when you are _bleeding_ out of your _abdomen_ , Dean!”

 

“I’ve had worse.” Dean waved offhand. 

 

Castiel felt so much rage and so much happiness that Dean was talking, he shot him a completely uncalled for look, full of that white-hot rage that bore from his gut, and of course Dean continued to laugh.

 

“What exactly is so funny, Dean?!”

 

“Not for nothin’, Cas, but the last time someone looked at me like that I got _laid._ ” He drawled out the last word, so lasciviously over the top, that Castiel braved gently shoving his arm. He saw a hospital and screeched in. 

 

“That’s it Dean, keep making jokes, stay awake for me Dean, come on.”

 

As he parked askew and tore open the Impala’s door, dragging Dean, he looked down. “But really Cas, you have the bluest eyes- ” his voice lowered and Castiel desperately searched for the emergency desk, or a nurse for crying out loud.

 

“That’s good, that’s funny, hah, yes, my eyes are very blue, very astute, Dean.”

 

“Like the sea, or something. _God_ you’re beautiful.”

 

Castiel’s heart plummeted, seeing him like this. “Dean, ok, enough, it’s not funny anymore.”

 

He found a gurney and a nurse and without a word, she called several people to her.

 

“In vino veritas, Cas.”

 

“You’re not drunk- he’s not drunk,” he said emphatically to the nurses he was now running with, “he’s been drugged and drained of blood. Lower abdomen wound, dismembered toes and removed toenails.”

 

“Pfft, semantics, it's all the same to me, gorgeous.” Dean waved, that smirk that broke Castiel into a thousand pieces ghosted across his face. 

 

“I’m sorry, sir, you’ll have to wait out here, we need to take him into surgery.”

 

And Castiel stopped in his tracks, nodding numbly, as the most important person he’d ever met disappeared behind swinging doors and fading shouts. He felt winded. 

 

He stayed all night, and the horror of Dean's blood on his trenchcoat seeped into his olfactory memory permanently. 


	10. Damage Control

_“Boy, I’ll tell you, I’m just cutting you down for your own sake.”_

_“Kiss my ass, Prof.”_

_“Tsk, such vulgarity, Winchester! And you had so much potential.”_

_“Potential for what?”_

_“I was carving you, pardon the pun, into a new animal. To be… remade in my image.”_

_“Thanks, somehow I think I’ll pass on becoming a complete loon!”_

_“You could have been more than you are, but now… now you’ll never get that chance again. You wasted my time.”_

_“Well jeez, Heyerdahl, I guess I’m sorry, but I think the whole carving me up like a christmas turkey makes us evens stevens, whaddya say?!”_

_“Your bravado is pointless, Dean.”_

_“Oh yeah?”_

_“Yes. No one knows you’re here.”_

_“They’ll find you. Cas’ll find you, you sonuvabitch, and when he does you’ll be lethal injected up the wazoo, and I’ll watch the whole damn thing. I’ll even bring s’mores when I watch you burn, you evil piece of crap.”_

_“He doesn’t care, Dean.”_

_He’s not coming…_

***

Bright lights roused Dean, fluorescent and harsh, and his body felt way too heavy. He tried to call out for Sam, but his throat was dry as hell. _Oh man this can’t be good._ He felt a firm pressure on his left hand and managed to turn his head slightly to see Cas, dead to the world, gripping his hand. Despite being in a friggin’ hospital bed, feeling like death warmed up, Dean smiled. Cas must’ve tracked him down, found him, saved him-

Not truly in control of his limbs, Dean started to rub his thumb where it lay in Cas’ hand. He couldn’t really explain it, but he had this kind of… glow to him. Damn, morphine was a cakewalk. Cas gripped Dean’s hand a little tighter as he woke up suddenly. His eyes were wide, like he hadn’t meant to fall asleep, and he turned towards Dean. 

“Dean…”

“Cas?”

“You’re awake.”

“Jeez, nothin’ gets past you, does it Sherlock?”

Cas smiled, tilting his head slightly, before he became way too serious-looking, casting his eyes down. “Dean, there’s something I have to say…”

“Can you cool your heels a second there, at least until you stop looking like a… majestic unicorn thing? Kinda hopped up on happy no-pain pills right about now.”

“Of course, I’m sorry.”

“So, Alastair.”

Dean watched Cas’ jaw tighten, and he looked down again. “He’s been arrested. When he assaulted me, I managed to disarm him, but you lost a lot of blood by the time I found you. And, um, a couple of toes.” His eyes were painful to look back at it. “I am sorry.”

“Less to jam into furniture, I guess.” Dean joked shakily, wiggling his remaining digits for good measure. “Hang on, you took on Alastair? By yourself?”

“He had the same drug he used on you, and I forced him to administer it to himself instead. I also…” a small smirk ghosted his face briefly as he looked at the wall, “may or may not have landed a heavy blow to his jaw. That may or may not have needed to be administered.” With one side-long glance, he had Dean laughing shallowly.

“Dude, that’s awesome! For a nerdy little dude with a badge, you’re pretty hardcore.” Cas squinted a little and damn, if looks could kill… “Ok ok, quit with the laser-stare, bed-ridden, remember? I get to crack jokes with no comebacks!”

“I’m sorry, Dean.”

“You saved my ass, Cas, you have nothing to be sorry for.”

“No, I mean… well, there was a point where I doubted you.”

“Jeez, Cas, that… that kinda stings.”

“It’s just, I talked to Sam about- ”

Ignoring the searing pain in his torso, Dean straightened up in his bed. “What the hell, what did talk to Sammy for?”

“I just- I just wanted to find out about you, I was curious as to why you two lived together and he said some things…”

“Dammit Cas, what happened? What did you say to my brother?”

“I… I may have… probed him a little too far…”

A cold dread shook through him. “Jesus Christ, Cas, is he alright?”

Cas blanched and Dean thought he was gonna vomit when a quiet voice came out with “I don’t know.”

“What the hell d’ya mean, you don’t know? Cas, that’s my brother’s head! What, with all your fancy damn degrees you can’t spot someone who shouldn’t be fucking pushed too far, what the _fuck_ did you say to my brother?”

A nurse rapped at the door, probably coming in to tell Dean to pipe down, but she had papers in her hand. “Mr Winchester, I’m glad you’re awake. Your brother was admitted last night, neighbours called in saying he was causing disruption. He’s under surveillance, he had to be heavily sedated, but your uncle, Mr Singer? He came and he’s in the waiting room at the moment, shall I tell him you’re up.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” His voice had never been so even. He’d never had to hold on like that before, not even the last time. He turned to Cas who looked like he’d been hit by a truck.

“You son of a bitch. You did this.” despite his anger there was a huge strain to his voice, broken trust searing through it all. 

“Dean, please, I thought you were- ”

“You said I was a cleared suspect! You said you trusted me, Cas! What was that, some FBI mojo to get me to confess or what?”

“I wanted know more about you Dean, I was just- just curious, and Sam, he told me things, things in your past, that warranted alarm, but I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I care- I care for you a great deal, I didn’t want you to have- to have tricked me, I- ”

“So even worse, you were doing it to get into my pants, huh? Is that it?”

“No, Dean, listen to me, just stop a second- ”

“No! For all I know, you’ve triggered a goddamn breakdown! It took months and he hadn’t even gotten over that hill, and you pushed him right back down again! That kind of trauma doesn’t disappear! You heartless- Just, just get _out_ of here!”

“Dean, you don’t understand, I had good intentions-”

“Yeah, well, road to hell and all that, Cas! God, he was getting better, I had my brother back, and two words to the guy and you send him to the nuthouse. You fucking… android. You’ve got nothin’ behind those ribs, do ya? Just a bunch of circuit boards and some jumper cables.”

“Dean, I’m sorry. I can never ask you to forgive me, but this kills me- ”

“You can’t, and I don’t care, Cas. I don’t care what this has done to you. I don’t _care_. Get out. Never come near me or my brother again.”

“Please, Dean, I-”

“Get OUTTA here, Novak!”

***

Castiel did as he was asked. He could do just this one thing, couldn’t he? His twisted heart felt like it had jumped up into his throat, his stomach was stone, his legs turned to liquid, his mind gone. But not as gone as Sam’s.

He made his way up to the psychiatric ward, seeing Professor Singer in far more casual attire than he was used to, looking small in the empty waiting room. He caught his eye and for a second the pain he was being caused was not his fault.

“Special Agent- ” he started

“Please, Castiel.” he swallowed the lump in his throat and ignored the echoes of Dean’s words. “I heard about Sam.”

“Uh-huh. Been quite a tough night round here.” he breathed, looking to his shoes and appearing uncharacteristically small.

Castiel hadn’t ever truly looked on Robert for anything other than his usual profiling procedure, but the tired lines around his eyes, the trucker cap casting a shadow across his pallid face; he was so invested in these young men that Castiel had known for all of three days. He could understand how anyone could get sucked into the vortex that was the Winchester Boys and mentally applauded the professor for lasting so long.

“How is he?” 

“I didn’t think it was possible, but I think he’ll be alright, but he keeps witterin’ on ‘bout demons and angels and what-not… He’s said some, some pretty disturbing stuff.”

The cold lump of his stomach lurched at the guilt. Dean had naturally acted from deep emotional pools, but he didn’t put it past the man before him to react violently. “Like what?”

“Like, he somehow thinks a demon possessed Dean and he’s killing those people that you’ve been investigatin’, that he killed Jess and their Mom. Woke up to a lotta yellow tape sayin’ otherwise, but he won’t listen to me.” The fond smile he pulled on didn’t reach his eyes. “The idjit.”

“I’m sorry.” _I’m sorry I’ve caused your family even more undue pain, I’m sorry I only barely did my job, I’m so so sorry._

“Hey, you should go see him, I’m just… I’m just waiting to see if I can take the sorry kid home.”

***

He stepped into the isolated room where Sam was sitting up in bed, the gown they’d given him draining all the colour from his face. His hands covered his eyes, not in sadness or contemplation, but seemingly just to keep all the light out. 

“Sam?” he hesitated. After all, his conference with the young man had put him here in the first place. 

“Cas…" His hands slid from his face slowly, his eyes blinking sorely. He looked like hell, but he smiled thinly anyway. "Cas, hey.”

“I’m sorry to bother you.” 

He shifted in his spot, picking his words like they didn't taste right in his mouth anymore. “It’s ok, I’m a bit more lucid, I guess.”

Castiel steeled himself. He had to at least try and make things right, even if there was so little to salvage. For Sam's sake. “I did this to you, and I’m sorry.”

“Is it- Was it- I mean, is he..?”

“Dean?” Even saying his name caused a flare in his gut. 

“Yeah.”

Hanging his head, Castiel brought as much sincerity and authority into his words as humanly possible. “He’s innocent. I was wrong.”

“Good.”

That was quick. He had been expecting a little more fight but...

“Good? You… accept that?” he wavered.

Completely straight-faced he continued, “Well yeah, I mean, as long as the guys at the Bureau understand that it’s the demon and not him that’s doing it, it’ll be alright.”

 _Oh God this is worse than I thought._ “Sam, he’s not possessed. There are no demons.” Even to his own ears he sounded patronising but he had no idea what he was meant to do when he was this close to what he was trying to fix. 

“You…" Sam's head tilted minutely, his eyes all at once scrutinising and pleading for understanding. "At the house, you had wings." He gestured wildly behind him, at which point Castiel saw the long angry marks along up and down his arms, like he'd been trying to claw at something beneath his skin. "Huge dark wings… But they’re gone. So, I'm better, I guess? Or you're hiding them...” 

“I never had wings Sam.” 

There was a slight fear to his voice, but mainly Sam sounded accusatory. “What’s going on?”

“Sam, this is important, what do you see when you look at me?”

“Just, you, Cas. Just you." As if he was reading lines and over-acting. "You’re not all glorified or whatever. Hey, I’m cured.” he shrugged loosely and Castiel's bones rattled. As he looked to the window, he saw a nurse with dark curled hair looking over briefly. As she passed the door, he caught her and gently ushered her in.

“Excuse me nurse-"

"Masters." she said underlining her name badge with her finger with a smirk.

"Nurse Masters, may I speak with you?”

But before the woman could open her mouth again, there was a sharp gasp and Sam was plastered against his headboard, keeping himself as close to the wall as possible. His eyes were wide, showing his bloodshot whites and he was babbling wildly. 

“Shit, Cas, look out, her eyes, look, her eyes are black! Fucking demons, Cas, run! Just leave me, I can handle her." He snarled at the nurse. "Get away from me! Get away from me, I know how to deal with you ugly sonsofbitches, I know ALL the tricks, you stay the hell away from me!”

"Rogers, we need some orderlies in room 56b, please!" Masters called down the hallway.

Castiel just stared in horror as Sam was restrained and sedated. After he was sure Sam was sleeping soundly, he got up, his face turned to stone. He walked out of the hospital, ignoring Singer's shouting after him, into the early morning sunrise. 

 


	11. Does Three Years Make a History?

_Kansas in October was stagnant. From where Dean was planted, anyway. He rocked on a chair on his front porch, surrounded by ghosts. Whenever they moaned too loudly, he fumbled for the neck of the Jack Daniels next to his right foot._ Dean shakes his head away from the memory. Although Sam's been through some serious rough patches, he's managed to rebuild himself. He doesn't see monsters in every malevolent shadow anymore, and for that Dean is grateful beyond belief. He's still required to spend an overnight stay at the hospital every few months though, just to be safe, and the problem with Sammy being gone is, well Dean relaxes into barely existing. Like this. He puts the bottle to his lips and lets it burn through his gullet. He knows this much; he'll never see the bastard that did this to his little brother ever again. And boy, doesn't that gut him like a fish? 

***

Three years after he wrote up that damned report, promising himself to leave the Winchesters be, that he'd done enough, Castiel writes a letter. At first he addresses it to Sam, then to Robert, but he always ends up with no words to write. Because truly the most regretful thing that sticks in his mind is a pattern of freckles that resemble a Madagascan night sky, and eyes greener than-

He needs to do this, he tells himself. His hand shakes. He's tried typing the words but it's like speaking through another being's voice, and it won't be purged like that, it won't feel the same. For so long he's clung to the pain, for some strange reason it has helped keep him rigid, kept him in line, kept him doing his job as perfectly as possible. He never goes out anymore, staying inside, poring over his old psych books as if they hold the answer to fixing Sam again, to going back in time to rectify his mistakes. If he isn't, he works on tirelessly keeping strangers safe, people he will never meet, never befriend, never fall for. The guilt is too much somedays, it's always worse when he's idle.

The words have clung on inside him for so long, he knows he can't really carry on like this. He'll burn out like the star everyone tells him he is. 

So he sets pen to paper and bleeds.

_Dear Dean_

No, no, he’ll feel like I’m emotionally blackmailing him

_Dean,_

_I have never met someone who frustrates me as much as you. I hate you, to be honest, I was content, I was **good**  before I met you. I had some semblance of understanding about where my life was meant to be going, and I spend three days with you and I realise it was all a crock of shit. So thank you, truly, for fucking up my life beyond repair. _

Ok, so perhaps he's angrier than he thought he was. Three years is enough time to let something like that fester and rot. He tries again.

_Dean,_

_Words cannot describe how sorry I am for the pain I have caused you and Sam. I would give anything for you to be alright and for you to forgive me. If I could, I would attempt to redeem myself in your eyes, but I know now, after deliberation that it's not about me, but about the damage I did to your family, and honestly I'd rather stay away if it kept you and Sam safe. Yet, even after all this time, I can't stop myself from trying to explain myself to you. It's the only thing I could possibly do._

_I promise I will never try to contact you again after this letter, but I need you to know something. Part of why I was so afraid in the first place, why I pushed Sam to unspeakable limits, was because I was too close to you. You reminded me of why I still do this job, that my purpose is not permeated with death, that I'm here to help people, people like you. You may shrug this off as an attempt to claw back your friendship, but it is not. You close yourself off from everything because you are terrified of hurting people, but you are depriving them of you. Speaking as an expert in being cut off from you, I can easily say it's difficult. ~~Without your companionship, the air goes out of the room, sound is muffled and life loses its spark. But maybe that’s just me. Maybe that’s just because I need you, Dean.~~ You are the closest thing to a real friend I have ever had, Dean ~~, and I would do anything to protect you~~. But it is no longer my place if I am no longer wanted. Nothing I could do to mend our burnt bridge. Just know that you enriched me, showed me the true compassion of humanity. But this is me, letting go of you. I'm sorry I clung for so long. _

_~~Love~~  Yours, Castiel._

He obliterated the poetics. Dean didn't need to see that, see how pathetic Castiel was. He had been through enough to further endure dramatics such as Castiel's.

As he sealed and posted it to the Kansas address, hearing it thud along with the rest of the mail, he stopped, seeing if he felt the wave of catharsis he'd desperately hoped for.

He felt nothing. If anything, he felt more numb. He had hollowed himself out.

He turned and carried on going through the motions, signing on for more and more dangerous missions, barely feeling his feet touch the ground. He has no idea where he's being carted around to, where his feet take him. When he feels a sharp pain in his stomach he thinks maybe he's finally got it, finally it's taken hold of him and he's feeling the utter relief. When he looks down however, seeing the blood blossom and start to gurgle from his abdomen, followed by the dull pressure of something or other, he last thing he thinks before his vision darkens is _well at least this is something._

***

"Post for Winchester?" a voice blares out through Dean's faze of alcohol.

"Yeah, yeah man, over here."

"Sir your mailbox's all to hell, y'know that right?"

"Yeah, damn kids and baseball bats."

The postman powers over to the porch and thrusts a bunch of letters into Dean's waiting hands. "Alright sir, have a nice day."

"You too, Skip." he dismisses with a wave

Bill, bill, bill, takeout, bill- Manilla envelope?  _Did Bobby give me work to do on time off?_ He breathes out a strange laugh, tearing it open with his finger. When he sees the FBI letterhead, a dull thud rings through him once, twice, and he pauses at the handwritten scrawl, gashed through with violent black-outs. With a sigh, he decides to end the self-medication session (for now) and takes it inside.

Several cups of coffee later and innumerable re-readings Dean thinks ( _prays_ ) he's got the main message of this letter. As he contemplates picking his brother from the hospital that evening alongside the contents of the letter, he lets a couple of rebellious tears fall before marching to the shower and shucking off his (pretty ripe-smelling) sweats and plaid. He starts to wash the rest of his afternoon, along with the last three years, down the drain and looks himself in the mirror. 

"You have  _got_ to find this weirdo again. Now let's get our brother and get our life in order." 

He smiles for what feels like the first time in years. 


	12. Kismet, Alfie

Dean arrived at the hospital clean-shaven for the first time in a month, reinvigorated with renewed direction. He'd decided; he'll pick Sam up, go home and find Cas. After all, what's he got to lose? 

***

"How much blood has he lost?" she asked quickly.

"I- I don't know, this is- I'm new, I don't really know him." His green eyes flitted from the wound to the paramedic to the various machines in the ambulance. He looked like he was going to pass out himself. 

"Sir, if you would just remain calm-"

"Alfie my name is Alfie." His first op and his primary gets it in the gut. _What a day._ His hands shook, still covered in blood, the hole made in Castiel's body, having to apply pressure, still ghosting underneath his fingers. "Is he going to be alright?"

"We'll get him to the hospital and we'll do what we can."

"Where's the nearest?"

"All the way out here? The closest is Lawrence Memorial."

A memory reaeds its head and Alfie alights to one of the few things Castiel actually said to him before this whole mess.

_"Promised myself I'd never go back to Kansas."_

***

"Hi, I'm here for Sam Winchester? I'm picking him up, I'm his brother."

"I'm so sorry sir, you'll have to wait in the emergency area for a little while, waiting room's under construction, y'know how it is."

"Sure, sure, it's fine, rough idea how long he'll be?"

"Another ten, fifteen tops."

"Thanks."

Dean backtracked a little down the halls to the ambulance entrance, deciding to go for some fresh air rather than stay in those damn back-ruining things the emergency room calls chairs, looking up and thinking how it was getting dark sooner again. As he was getting back inside however, a gurney broke past him with several paramedics and a couple of doctors and nurses shouting various medical terms around while a guy - a kid, really - panted alongside them, looking down at the man all this mayhem was surrounding. 

"Sorry Alfie, can't come past here, wait in the emergency room." one of the women shouted before disappearing through doors. 

The kid looked distraught and Dean couldn't help but clamp a hand on his shoulder and say, "Hey, man, you ok?"

His wide watery eyes looked like saucers and he'd barely whimpered "It's my first day," before bursting into tears and clinging - _wow stronger than he looks jesus bruising ribs here, Alf_ \- to Dean like there was no tomorrow. 

"Hey look, you want some coffee or somethin'? Tastes like crap, but it steadies things a bit. I can sit with you for a little while if you want, I'm just waiting for my brother."

Alfie sniffed in response and they walk to the coffee machine. 

***

After about 10 minutes of Dean awkwardly shoe-horning in small talk and a couple of cups of the most clichéd hospital coffee ever tasted, Alfie seemed ready to talk, and about damn time, Dean really needed to pick up Sam. 

"It was my first time in the field for real. They assigned me to the best guy in our division, but... I dunno, he seemed so out of it. At first I thought he was just, y'know, the strong silent types but he- he was just.... not all there." He slurped the content of his cup as Dean surreptitiously checked the time on his phone before continuing. "Everyone at the office was like, 'oh Castiel, he's one of our best agents' but-"

"I'm sorry did you say Castiel? Castiel Novak?" the urgency in his voice was thinly concealed.

"Y-Yeah, Castiel Novak, how'd you know?"

"Cas- That was Cas?"

"Um-" starting to look a little spooked, Dean thinks fast to convince him he's not so weirdo stalker. 

"Ahh he's got.. Dark hair, blue eyes?"

"Yeah- Do you know him?"

"I'm-"  _I used to, he's kind of the reason I'm here right now, which is seven leagues of nuts but I guess the universe is trying to tell me something_. "I helped him with a case, a few years ago."

"Oh."

"So he's-"

"Bullet wound to the gut." Alfie declared quickly

Dean's heart clenched. His blood was rushing through his ears to the malevolent tune of  _three years._

"Is he..." he swallowed down the panic that's threatened to punch through him, "gonna be ok? He gonna make it?"

Alfie's hands started shaking again and Dean made a decision.

"Look, kid, I've got to pick up my brother but, if you'd like you can stay with us, get some sleep, and I'll be here and I'll ring you as soon as he wakes up, how about that?"

"Agent." he sniffs. "I'm an agent."

"That's the spirit."

***

He'd decided not to tell Sam just who he was going back to the hospital for, but he was shooed out quickly enough anyway to the sound of "I'm not a damn invalid Dean, I can take care of myself and some random FBI dude by myself,  _geez_."

And if he'd run upstairs to grab a musty-smelling bloodstained trench coat that had been sitting in his hospital room so long ago, he'd been incredibly sly about it.

As he strolled to the reception for the second time since the night before, explaining that Castiel Novak was his cousin from out of state, of course, the nurse told him he was out of surgery, but he'd need a couple of hours before visiting hours were allowed. As Dean took out his worn David Bellos  _Is That a Fish in Your Ear?,_ he barely noticed the words on the page, simply letting his mind race. What if Cas didn't wanna see him? What if he was fucking up some kind of closure for the guy? Now that he thought about it, without the optimistic shine to things, how could it even really work? Cas was their best guy, why would he leave to be with _Dean_ of all people? 

_Well now I'm really getting ahead of myself, what if I've been reading this whole thing wrong from the jump?_

"Mr Winchester? Your cousin's ok for visitors now."

Dean pushed everything further into himself and got up to see his friend.

***

He sat by Cas, not touching him, scared if he did, he’d disappear. All the worries he'd been having waiting to see him came back with force, made worse by facing what used to be in his mind a tenacious bastard replaced with someone who looked like he'd gone ten rounds with Mjolnir every day for the last year or so. 

He leaned over him, still unconscious and couldn't help remembering how he'd screamed at the guy, told him to get out, get out of his life, and how much has passed since then. He settled in the chair by his side 

“I’m poison, Cas. Everything I touch turns to crap. I don’t know if you can hear me, but, every damn day I regret telling you to leave.” he scrunched up the dirty folds of the trench coat and laid a hand on the bed, not daring to initiate contact. That's when Cas decided to wake up.

***

Cas’ eyes are slits but when he sees Dean they widen with all the colour. His jaw clenched with worry, the viridian spark barely glinting in his eyes and his grey skin stretched too tightly over his knuckles, but it is undoubtedly the Dean Winchester who stole the pigment from his life and forced him to learn the true meaning to the word “consequence”. He shuffled up a little onto his elbows and stretched his fingers out for Dean to hold his hand.

***

Dean stared at the hand as if it’s an explosive device, and, in a figurative sense, it is. It will destroy the numbness inside him, make him yearn for someone again, break down his defences because that’s what the memory of Cas did for the past 3 years, hence the alcohol to dumb down the pain. The alcohol that jabbed a merciful anaesthesia to the fierce love that had grown in his absence. And here, his friend had returned to him, more broken than ever before, and he still held out his hand. He laid his hand gently on top of Cas' and indulged in a private smile as he looked up at Cas' too-blue eyes.

“Hello, Dean.” he rasped.

“Hey there, Cas.”

He looked down at the thumb rubbing his own and squinted at Dean. “You’re here. In the hospital. With me.”

“There you go with that sharp sense of observation. The bureau would be lost without you, huh?” despite the smile in his face, Dean was so quiet, even to his own ears. They sat there, just staring at each other in silence as if no time had passed, as if this kind of familiarity hadn't been denied them both for the past three years. But something dark passed over Cas' face, and he slid his hand out from under Dean's and placed his own hands on top of each other. 

“Dean while I enjoy our rapport, I must tell you something before I regret not saying it.”

Dean shuffled uncomfortably. He'd moved on, he'd decided. That letter was his closure. He needed to focus on what was in front of him. He couldn't bring himself to even blame Castiel anymore, not after he still owed him for saving his life. So he'd decided, and if that meant getting it all out in the open, he wouldn't let him sway him from what he wanted anymore. 

“Go ahead, Cas, I’m all ears.”

“I know I can’t ever make up for what I did, but I want you to know how sorry I am.” his head hangs low

“I know, I got your letter, Cas.” he replied slowly, trying to catch his eyes again, really let him know. 

“Please, Dean, I’m not finished. I have been so lost without you. I would never admit it without the painkillers pumping through me right now, but I stopped living the moment I left the hospital that day. I, I was so afraid to return to you…”

“Why, you’re scared of old me tearing you a new one?”

“I was scared of what I would do to myself. If I saw the damage I had caused after all this time, the chaos I left behind me when all I wanted to do was help, I- I would have probably ended my own life.”

A damning silence rang through the air. 

Not caring that his voice sounded strained and weak, Dean broke that silence. “I would never let that happen, Castiel. You hear me? I have lost too much in my life, and I sure as hell wouldn’t stand by to lose you too. Of all people, I couldn’t take it if I lost you.”

Cas started at that, scrutinising Dean with those narrowed eyes of steel. “Why, Dean? You said yourself, you never wanted to see m-”

“I KNOW WHAT I SAID CAS, BUT I-” Dean cried, startling Cas with the outburst. “I’ve been lost too. We all have been." he breathed through his words, _because damn it this is too much of a chick-flick moment already to add frickin' tears to the mix_. "But I’m not the man you left behind.”

Cas looked like hell and yet he gripped Dean's hand it felt like he was gonna break it. “I’m sorry, Dean.” 

“I forgive you, Cas. Really. I can’t hold onto this anymore, I can’t _numb_ myself to everything anymore.” He squeezes Cas’ hand back. “Living without you is just existing, which is so damn boring, you have no idea.”

“It means pretty much everything for you to say that, Dean.” he says, looking over his face again and again, roving over his eyes and cheeks, as if he can't really believe Dean's here, and damn it if Dean hadn't missed being looked at like that, like he hung the moon.

Patting his hand, he started to get up. “Do you want me to go? Let you rest up?”

“Stay with me, stay until I fall asleep again.”

“Ok, Cas, you baby."

“I’m sick, where’s my free pass?”

“Bullet to the gut ain’t sick, just careless, really.”

“Dean.” very sternly, but his eyes narrowed as his smile matched them without meaning to.

“Ok ok I’m staying, I’m staying.”

Cas started falling asleep to the sound of Dean humming Paint it Black. 


	13. Epilogue

A few months later, Dean and Cas are settled in Lawrence. Cas decided that, despite how much he loved helping people, maybe the FBI just wasn't the place for him anymore, and he takes up a teaching course at the local community college. Although he doesn't say it, he admires Dean's passion for teaching so much he thinks he had no other choice of profession. And, if they decided that Cas should stay with Dean and Sam - for convenience's sake  _of course_ \- then hey, guess it just means they're damned efficient roommates. 

They still haven't quite gotten around to addressing _certain_ things though.

Until a lazy Sunday afternoon with an empty house and papers to write and mark. And red pen. Lots of red pen.

"Oh God Cas, why do these kids think 'loose' and 'lose' are interchangeable, it breaks my heart, really does."

"Maybe if you weren't such a language buff you'd be less critical, they've got the content haven't they?"

"Barely! And it's nothing to do with my snobby elitism-" he cuts himself off as Cas fixes him with a  _look_. "Ok, it's partly that, but it's also just friggin' common sense! One's a verb the other's an adjective, what's the big deal?"

"Perhaps you should simply start every semester with a grammar and spelling seminar, it would do them a world of good."

"Yeah, who d'ya think's gonna turn up to that barnstorm?" he says, starting to snigger. 

Cas smirks at his work before replying, notably matter-of-factly. "I would. I mean I'd have a hard time concentrating, but I think I'd happily waste an afternoon on proper grammar from Professor Winchester."

Dean looks over at Cas and he doesn't even notice the glow of fondness that settles over his features. Cas turns to look at him and tilts his head, scrutinising him and asking, “Dean? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“What? What are you talking about nerd, I always look at you like this.”

He adopts a terrible southern accent - _really is that really meant to be me?_ - and starts smiling like an idiot. “Not for nothing Dean, but the last time someone looked at me like that-”

Dean leans over and presses his lips against Cas', softly, carefully nipping at his bottom lip before moving his hand up Cas' face, grazing his hand with his five o'clock shadow, kissing him slow as molasses. He couldn't help it, that stupid impression broke the camel's back, he tells himself as he leans back to assess the damage. Sure enough, Cas looks like he's just witnessed Lazurus rising, his eyes sparkling _(seriously, Dean? Sparkling? What is he, a Disney princess? Alright yeah, he kinda is)_ and looking at Dean.  

Cas seems to contemplate Dean's lips once, twice, before rasping out, “That was unexpected.”

“Don’t be sarcastic, that’s _my_ thing.”

“These makes me…” he smiles wide and gummy, the smile that sets Dean's heart asunder, that crinkles his own eyes with an answering grin he can never deny, while he traces his lips before he holds his hands either side of Dean’s face, “Very happy.”

“I’m a man of many talents.”

Cas breathes low “Prove it.” before he swallows Dean's responsive moans with his tongue. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh gosh, finally done (bet ya weren't expecting THAT huh?) I'm so sorry about the whole making you wait months for what was a pretty mediocre piece of work, but I still hope you managed to enjoy it, or it at least aided you in some quality procrastination. Thank you so much for you comments, and, erm, THE END!

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own any of the characters or canon dialogue etc., [cries] that's all the property of Eric Kripke and the folks down at the CW channel and all. Hope you enjoyed my scribblings!


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